Godzilla and The Smog Monster
by Ross7
Summary: What happens when the Dark Haired Wonder and the World's Perfect Paramedic end up partnered in the same Squad together? Chet's just sorry he can't be there to see it.
1. Chapter 1

"**Godzilla and The Smog Monster"**

By Ross7

**Chapter One**

A police squad car pulled up to Rampart General's Emergency entrance.

Its driver flicked its headlights and revolving overheads off, and then piled out to pull its left rear door open.

"Get the cuffs off 'im, will yah, Mike!" one of its two passengers requested, as he came backing out of the car. "I'm gonna go get us a gurney!"

"Forget the gurney, Nick!" Mike protested, sounding every bit as unhappy as he looked. "Let's just drag the druggie inside, drop 'im, an' go ba—" he stopped, right in mid-rant.

His 'Florence Nightingale' partner had already disappeared behind the hospital's sliding glass doors.

Mike pulled a key from his shirt pocket and reluctantly removed the handcuffs from their no-longer-rowdy prisoner's wrists. He gave the junkie, who was sprawled across their squad car's back seat, a disgusted sneer. "Lousy hypes!" he griped, sounding every bit as disgusted as he looked.

* * *

Nick returned, less than a minute later, with two orderlies and a gurney.

Their unconscious prisoner was pulled from the squad car, placed on the stretcher, and then wheeled inside.

* * *

Nick followed the gurney as it was guided off down a hall.

His peeved partner headed over to the ER's Admitting Desk.

* * *

"What d'yah got for us?" the pretty young thing behind the counter inquired of the police officer standing before her.

Mike gave the girl a once over and smiled. He liked what he saw. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. We found a junkie in an alley. Looks like he must a' fell and hit his head."

The pretty lady placed a form in her typewriter. "Name?"

"Alexander Michaelson," the cop told her with a grin. "But my friends just call me Mike."

The girl gave the flirting fellow an icy, un-amused, impatient glare.

The officer's grin vanished. "John Doe!" he smartly replied.

The look on the young woman's pretty face immediately switched from disappointed to disgusted. "Not _another_ one! We've had five 'John Does' tonight already!"

Mike smiled sympathetically at the girl across the counter. "Sounds like _you_ hate John Does about as much as **I** hate hypes."

* * *

Nick stood in the busy ER's main corridor, staring down at the body on the gurney beside him. The officer watched, with growing alarm, as the rhythmic rising and falling of their prisoner's chest suddenly became somewhat erratic. He latched onto the arm of a passing nurse. "Excuse me, but do you think you could take a look at this guy?"

The nurse exhaled an impatient gasp. "What's wrong with him?"

"I think he's _dying_!" Nick exclaimed, giving voice to his alarm. He read the nurse's nameplate: Rita Moore, LPN. "Look, Ms Moore, I ain't really sure what's wrong with him. We found him crawlin' around in an alley. He's got a lot a' needle marks on his arms, like a junkie has. Maybe he's OD'ed?"

The woman's face filled with disgust.

"We think he must a' hit his head on something," Nick quickly continued. "He's got a bloody nose and there's some kind a' fluid coming out of his left ear here…See?"

Rita obligingly glanced down at the gurney. She saw its occupant's blood-streaked face for the first time—and did a beautiful double-take.

"Something wrong?" Nick asked, noting that Rita suddenly looked a little rattled.

Ms. Moore couldn't seem to raise her gaze from their prisoner. "Huh? Uhhh…No. No-o. It's just…he looks an _awful lot_ like a guy that works around here! What's his name?"

"He wouldn't tell us…and we couldn't find any I.D."

"The exam rooms are all full right now," the nurse numbly informed him. "But I'll see if I can find you a doctor…" The woman began backing down the hall, her eyes still riveted upon the familiar face of the fellow on the gurney. She bumped into another nurse. "Helen, you wanna see the winner of the John Gage look alike contest?" She pulled Helen up to the John Doe's stretcher. "The police just brought him in…found 'im crawlin' around in an alley…claim he's a junkie."

Helen's reaction to the young man on the gurney was identical to Rita's.

Ms. Moore looked smug. "Amazing, huh?"

Helen nodded numbly. "He could be his twin!"

Rita finally turned and hurried off down the hall, to see about fetching a doctor.

Helen stopped a passing orderly. "Ricky, who does this guy look like, to you?"

Ricky glanced down at the guy on the gurney. "One of the Fire Department paramedics?"

Helen nodded. "John Gage!"

"Right!" Ricky concurred, with a snap of his fingers. "John Gage!" He turned and called another orderly over. "Hey! Marty! Come here a sec'! You gotta see this!"

Nick stared at the gawking hospital staffers in complete and utter disbelief.

Mike came dodging his way down the corridor. "C'mon! Let's go! Our shift ended at midnight!"

"I'm not leaving here til I can get _somebody_ to take a look at this guy!" his partner announced.

Mike was about to protest, when he noticed that a crowd was gathering around them. "What's goin' on?"

"Seems our John Doe strongly resembles someone who _works_ around here." Nick gave the crowd of onlookers an angry glare. "And—whoever it is—he must be the _only one_ who **does**!"

The huddled hospital people took the officer's hint and began to disperse.

Mike gave his fellow officer a rather angry glare of his own. "You won't keep Maggie waiting _twenty minutes_, to have a friendly little drink with _your partner_. But you'll keep her waiting _half the night_, for some _lousy junkie_?"

The guy on the gurney began choking just then, and saved his partner from having to respond.

Nick rolled their John Doe's head further to one side. "He stands about as much chance of dying in this corridor, as he did back in that alley!"

Mike glanced down at the gurney and saw that blood was, once again, streaming from the corner of their prisoner's mouth. "Next time, you'll just have to _phone ahead_—like the paramedics do. Then maybe they'll reserve a room for you…"

* * *

Ms. Moore had found every treatment room already occupied and every doctor extremely busy. Treatment Two's occupant had been sitting up, however. Now, anybody who could sit up while being treated might be able to wait…

* * *

Rita stepped back up to Exam Two and poked her head through the door. "Dr. Early, the police have a John Doe O.D. out in the hall who is hemorrhaging from his nose and mouth. He's also got cerebral-spinal fluid draining from his left ear."

Joe Early was in the process of stitching up a six-inch gash in a young teenaged girl's leg. He stopped, right in mid-stitch, and turned to the doorway. "What makes you think he's an O.D.?"

"The _officer_ says there is evidence of needle tracks on his arms."

"Are there any obvious signs of head trauma?"

"He has a small cut on his left temple and there is some slight bleeding."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. You wouldn't believe how much this guy looks like _John Gage_!"

The doctor arched an eyebrow, but then immediately dismissed the thought. "THEY say _everybody_ has a double—somewhere in the world."

"Still, it's rather unnerving. Kind a' _spooky_, even…"

"Miss Moore, would it be asking too much for you to get me a set of vitals?"

"Yes, doctor! I mean, no, doctor! I'll get them right away!" The woman's head disappeared from the doorway.

The doctor sighed and went back to his sewing.

* * *

Joe tied off his last suture and turned to the nurse who'd been assisting him. "Bandage this for me, will you, Carol?"

The nurse nodded and reached for a sterile compress.

Early flashed his completely silent patient a warm smile. "Twenty-six stitches…and you haven't made a sound. _You_ are a very brave young woman!"

The girl returned his smile. "Just a little road rash. No big deal."

"I'm recommending that you stay off your brother's motorcycle for the next few weeks, to give that leg of yours a chance to heal."

The girl moaned and groaned and suddenly looked as though she were about to cry.

Joe suppressed another smile and then turned to have a little _talk_ with one of his patient's anxious parents.

* * *

Rita finished taking the guy on the gurney's vital signs. "This man needs a treatment room _right no-ow_!" she determined and hurried off down the hall.

* * *

Joe was still speaking to his 'road rash' patient's anxious mother, when an even more anxious Miss Moore suddenly came barging into the exam room and began blurting out her findings.

The condition of that John Doe O.D. the police had brought in was _critical_!

"Get him in here—STAT!" Early ordered, sounding somewhat anxious himself. He turned and helped the room's current occupant back into her wheelchair. "Remember, Pam…no more motorcycles for the next few weeks."

The girl blinked her tear-filled eyes and frowned. "Bummer!"

Joe rolled the wheelchair out of the way, as two orderlies suddenly burst into the exam room, guiding a gurney.

The body on the gurney was transferred to a treatment table and the empty stretcher was quickly wheeled from the room...along with the girl in the wheelchair.

Joe turned to the two nurses who were there and began barking out orders.

"What's this about somebody looking like _John Gage_?" Cheryl Norquist asked, as she came rushing into the room.

"Never mind tha-at!" Joe told her. "Get an IV and some oxygen going!"

Nurse Norquist just stood there—frozen in place. The woman was gazing down at their patient, wearing a look of absolute shock and disbelief. In fact, for a moment, it appeared as though she might pass out.

Early latched onto the woozy woman's elbow and steadied her, before following her gaze—to the body on the treatment table. Joe suddenly felt a bit stunned, himself.

Their patient's pallid face was streaked with mud and blood, but still and all, the guy could've been a dead ringer for—. The doctor stopped in mid-thought and stiffened.

Joe lifted the un-tucked tails of their patient's dirty, white dress shirt.

The young man was wearing an empty paramedic's assessment kit, and a solid silver belt buckle with J-O-H-N engraved upon it.

Early ripped J-O-H-N's shirt open and stared down at the surgical scar on his abdomen—the scar **he** had made when he removed the paramedic's ruptured spleen! The physician glanced up, his face filled with rage. "This _is_ **John Gage**!" he bellowed**. "What the _hell's_ ****happened**** to him?**"

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Two  
**

Joe Early did not hear his colleague, Kel Brackett, enter the treatment room. He and his medical team were too busy trying to keep their surprise patient alive.

"What a night!" Kel complained. "I've sewn so many stitches, I'm beginning to feel like Betsy Ross…" When his comments failed to elicit even a single glance of sympathy, the feeling-somewhat-slighted doctor stepped up beside his silent associate and studied the lit x-ray exam screen his friend was staring so intently up at. "Hmm…depressed skull fracture. You can bet this guy's gonna be needing an O.R."

"I've got one reserved," Early assured him, "and a surgical team is already standing by."

"What's the holdup?"

"We're still trying to get him stabilized," Joe replied and passed his doctor friend their critical patient's medical chart.

Kel noted some of the alarmingly low numbers that were recorded on it and winced. "I see-ee…" He handed back the chart and directed his concerned gaze to the young man, lying motionless on the treatment table. "Any idea how it—" the doctor's dark eyes widened in shock and recognition and his mouth suddenly stopped moving.

"The police just brought him in…claim they found him crawling around in an alley," Early informed the still too stunned to move or speak physician. "I was able to reach Paul Kurtz at a New Year's Eve party. He's on his way now. We hope to have _him_ stabilized and prepped by the time Kurtz gets here."

Brackett gave his informant a grateful glance.

Paul Kurtz was the best neurosurgeon the hospital had on staff.

Hell, Kel considered Kurtz one of the top neurosurgeons in the entire country! The doctor recovered from the shock of the depressed skull fracture patient's identity and stepped up to the exam table. "What on earth happened to you, Johnny?" he quietly inquired of their unconscious young friend. Then he turned back to Joe, looking even more confused. "How did the _police_ end up bringing him in?"

"He wasn't wearing his uniform or carrying any I.D. The officers thought they were dealing with 'an over-dosed junkie'."

"Are they still here?"

"I had someone ask them to stick around. I was hoping to talk to them…when I got the chance," Early added and stared solemnly down at his not quite stabilized patient.

"I'll talk to them for you," Brackett volunteered, taking both the hint and his leave.

* * *

Kel's eyes searched up and down the crowded hospital corridor, but failed to find any blue uniforms. The physician gasped in frustration and hurried off down the hall, in the direction of the ER's main entrance/exit.

* * *

Two police officers were seated in the waiting area, sipping coffee.

Kel exhaled a silent sigh of relief and promptly approached them. "Excuse me. I'm Dr. Brackett. Did you two just bring in a young man with a head injury?"

The two officers got stiffly to their feet.

"If you're referring to the John Doe junkie," Mike replied, "yeah. We brought 'im in. Why? Somethin' _else_ wrong with him?"

The right corner of Kel's mouth twitched twice and he mentally began counting to ten. His seething anger diminished with each additional number, until he was finally able to address the arrogant officer _somewhat_ civilly. "You-our…'junkie' happens to be a Los Angeles County Fire Department _paramedic_! He has several things _wrong_ with him at the moment, but I can assure you that one of them is NOT a _drug overdose_!" He stopped shouting and started his silent counting again. The physician's fury finally sank back below the surface. "What happened to him?"

The two officers had been stunned into silence.

"We don't know," Nick was finally able to answer. "He was lying—face down—in an alley, between Harbor and Ames. Look, he wasn't wearing a uniform or carrying any I.D. when we found him. How were we supposed to know who he was?"

"Yeah!" Mike concurred. "He appeared to be drugged, and he was acting disorderly! Plus, his arms are all scarred up, just like a junkie's—"

"—Then," Kel suddenly interrupted, "he was _conscious_ when you found him?"

The two men exchanged thoughtful glances.

"Sort of," Nick said.

"You mean, he was _disoriented_?"

Mike nodded. "Very!"

Kel managed an exasperated gasp. "So-o…you have no idea _how_ he ended up in that alley…or _how_ he got hurt."

The officers frowned and shook their heads.

Nick suddenly remembered something and brightened. "Mike, here, said he saw a Fire Department Rescue Squad parked not two blocks from where we found _him_!"

Brackett's gloomy countenance instantly brightened, as well. "You didn't happen to catch the number on the truck's door, did you?" The doctor was hopeful. He knew cops were trained to be observant.

Mike racked his brain for a few moments and then smiled. "I'm fairly certain it said **16**."

The physician flashed both officers a grateful smile. "Thank you, gentlemen!" he declared and then hurried off down the corridor.

The two officers watched the doctor disappear. Then they turned back to one another, still looking and feeling somewhat dazed and amazed.

"A _paramedic_!" Mike exclaimed. "Can you beat that?" His right eyebrow suddenly arched in thought. "If he ain't a junkie…then…what _did_ happen to him?"

"Right now, it appears the only one who can answer _that_," Nick turned to stare sadly off down the hall, "is _him_." The officer exhaled a weary sigh and then turned back to his equally exhausted looking companion. "What d'yah say we go back to the station and get outta these uniforms?" He draped an arm across his bachelor friend's slumped shoulders and began ushering him toward the exit. "Then we'll find a nice, quiet bar somewhere. So I kin buy my partner a drink."

Mike flashed his best buddy a big, broad grin. "Now you're talkin', Nicholas!"

* * *

Early heard someone enter the treatment room and glanced up. His friend had returned from his fact-finding mission. "Where you able to learn anything?"

"Nothing!" Kel regrettably replied. "Except that Johnny was conscious when they found him."

"That's a good sign."

Speaking of signs…

Brackett suddenly noticed the deep purple bruise over the paramedic's left ribcage…and the bright blue diamond stamped onto the back of his right hand. "It seems he was found just a few blocks from where Craig Brice and Greg Garnett were parked with Squad 16…"

Early arched an eyebrow. "Coincidence?"

"Could be-e…I'm having them come here for questioning."

Joe suddenly recalled something. "Speaking of coincidences…Johnny was wearing Garnett's assessment kit when they brought him in."

Kel's head snapped up. "You sure?"

Early picked a black leather paramedic's assessment kit up from a countertop and handed it to the questioner.

Kel flipped the kit over and saw that Greg Garnett's name had been carved into the back of it. "It was empty?"

Joe nodded.

Brackett's puzzled gaze settled back down on the black object in his hands. "Why would he be wearing _this_, if he wasn't working?"

Early had an even better question. "Why would he be wearing Garnett's, when he's got one of his own?"

"He wouldn't…unless he was working for Garnett and forgot his."

"Or didn't have time to get his," Joe joined in. "Which would also explain why he wasn't wearing his uniform."

The two men seemed pleased with the combined power of their deductive reasoning.

But then both doctors' countenances quickly grew glum again.

They still hadn't a clue as to what had happened.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Three**

Everything that had happened had all _started_ happening eighteen hours earlier.

Gage and DeSoto were returning to their stationhouse, following several back-to-back early morning runs.

The entire shift had been exhausting, and the weary travelers were anxious to call it quits.

The pair rode along in silence, willing their radios to remain equally still.

* * *

About five blocks from the Station, the completely pooped paramedics abandoned mere 'hope' and actually began to _pray_ that they would make it back for the shift-change—_before_ they got another run.

The two tired firemen turned to each other as their Squad's radio suddenly crackled to life. Then they both breathed sighs of relief, as the tones that sounded were muted.

"**Engine 16…Squad 36 in place of Squad 16…Vehicle accident…with injuries—**"

"—Wonder where Brice and Manning are?" Gage inquired, interrupting the dispatcher. "Speaking of Brice…Did you notice how quiet he was at the meeting yesterday? The poor man must a' been _sick_, or somethin'. He didn't say three words to me the entire time. It's not like Brice to pass up a _perfectly_ good opportunity to be _insulting_.

Come to think of it, he didn't give his usual cover-to-cover summary of the latest paramedical journals, or lecture us all on the perils of ignoring department regulations, either. Plu-us, I don't recall him quoting from his precious 'rule' book a single time. Ma-an! Somethin' must be really _really_ wrong with him! I wonder what it is? I sure hope it's nothin' _serious_…"

The Squad's driver glanced at its passenger in disbelief. "You're too much, yah know that! You're actually _worried _that Craig Brice might be turning into a regular, _normal,_ likeable guy! Well, I wouldn't worry too much, if I were you. He's just been a little _distracted_ lately."

"Whatever's bothering him has gotta be more than just a **little**_ distraction_. Brice has always been **very**_ distracted_."

"Okay," Roy reluctantly came clean, "I think Brice may be _in love_."

"So-o?" his partner replied. "What else is new?"

DeSoto couldn't help but smile. "With someone _other_ than himself."

Gage was genuinely surprised. "Oh yeah? Who is she? I wanna be sure to send her my condolences."

Roy suppressed another smile. "You're not being very fair to Craig. Actually, he's not a bad guy…once you get to know him."

"Of course he's not a _bad_ guy," John came back, his voice oozing sarcasm. "He's a _perfect_ guy…a _perfect_ paramedic, a-and I'm confident he's going to make the poor imperfect girl a positively _perfect_ husband. That's why I feel sorry for her. It's hard to live with _perfection_."

DeSoto thought his friend's comment over for a few seconds. "_That_ certainly explains why _you_ are so **easy** to live with…"

His 'far from perfect' friend gave him a 'Ha. Ha. Very funny.' glare, but then was forced to grin. Sheesh! Roy could sure come up with some dandy zingers! "All joking aside…If you're suspicions are correct…then I'm really very happy for him. Everybody should be in love _at least_ once, or—in his case—twice."

"At least," Roy agreed, and finally released the grin he'd been suppressing.

* * *

Whether it was through the power of prayer, or not, will never be known, but—somehow—the two men did manage to make it back before receiving another call.

* * *

They strolled into Station 51's locker room and found both crews busy changing, B-shift into their uniforms, and A-shift into their street clothes.

Paramedic Don Lorey tried, unsuccessfully, to get Johnny to work his shift for him. "Ahhh, c'mon, Gage!"

John was sympathetic but adamant. "Sorry, Lorey. But I've already made plans for tomorrow. Besides, I made sort of a _New Year's resolution_ to cut waaaaay back on the TX."

Don was completely devastated. With Gage no longer willing to work overtime, and a lot of the guys abandoning the paramedic ranks for their promotions, how would he ever find anyone to fill in for him?

As if on cue, Captain Donnelly came into the locker room. "Gage? DeSoto?

The paramedics stopped what they were doing and glanced up at him.

"Headquarters just called. It seems more manpower is needed over in Pasadena tomorrow. Volunteers are needed to work the Aid Stations at the Rose Bowl…"

"Don't look at _me_," DeSoto told him. "I promised my kids I'd take 'em to see the parade."

The Captain's gaze shifted to Gage.

"The closest **I** intend to get to the _Rose Bowl_," John announced, "is the distance between my living room sofa…and my television set."

Donnelly grinned and departed.

Kelly finished tying his shoelaces and turned to his shiftmates. "Anybody wanna get together at the Twelve Alarm later on? We could toss back a few beers…order some pizza…maybe shoot some pool…"

His married crewmates gratefully declined the offer.

His two bachelor buddies glanced at one another for a few moments and then chimed in unison, "_Sure_!"

Chet was delighted.

John finished dressing and closed his locker. "Have a happy New Year's, partner!" he wished, and flashed his friend a warm smile.

Roy returned both his smile and his wish. "You, too, Johnny!"

Gage latched onto his laundry bag and his jacket and started heading for the door.

"Hey! Don't forget!" Roy called after him. "Joanne is expecting you for dinner tomorrow night!"

"Thanks! I won't forget!" his dinner guest promised and then disappeared.

* * *

Gage, Lopez and Kelly stopped—right in mid-stride—as a shiny, red firetruck suddenly pulled into Station 51's back parking lot.

Paramedic Greg Garnett parked Squad 45 directly in front of John Gage's Land Rover, and then baled out. "Johnny! Thank God you're still here!"

"It's been a lo-o-ong shift, Greg," Johnny wearily declared. "And I couldn't work _another_ one—even if I _wanted_ to…which I don't. I've been turning guys down, for the past 24 hours. I'm really beat! I could never make it through another shift. Heck, I barely made it through _this_ one! Besides," he glanced at Chet and Marco, "I've already made plans for this evening."

The three friends exchanged grins.

Garnett couldn't argue with so many excuses…so very many _good_ excuses. So he kept his mouth shut and pulled out a secret weapon—a small, red-velvet-covered ring box. He held the little box up in front of his fellow paramedic's face and lifted its hinged lid.

The three bachelors stared down at the box's sparkly contents for a few moments and then whistled softly.

"I'll bet _that _rock must a' set you back a few bucks," Chet determined, upon seeing the size of the engagement ring's diamond.

"You have no idea," Garnett simply said. "It's taken me _all week_ to work up the nerve to ask a certain young lady a certain question, pertaining to this ring. Up until twenty minutes ago, I was going to pose it to her at midnight tonight. I've already had to break three dates with her this week. I can't break _another_ one—especially not _this_ one! If I stand her up tonight, I'm afraid she'll never say 'Yes.' We were supposed to spend a quiet, romantic evening at her place. Then headquarters calls and tells me Beckman is out—sick. Now, I gotta spend tonight over at 16's, with a bunch a' ugly guys—instead a' with my girl! It's just not fair!"

John exhaled a long, weary sigh. "Have you asked anybody else?"

"There isn't _anybody else_ to ask! Brian Sager has been tryin' to find someone for the past four days! I'm tellin' yah, there's nobody available! Look, if you can't make the full shift, how about just workin' a split shift? Even 10:30 to 12:30 would do, in a pinch. If this were just any old average date, I wouldn't be here right now, begging you to cover for me. But tonight was supposed to be one of the most special nights of my life…" his words trailed off and he stared sadly down at the ring in his hands. Both the stone's size and its beauty were pretty gosh-darn impressive.

So was Garnett's power of persuasion.

Gage exhaled a quiet sigh of surrender. "Okay. I'll do it," he informed his very persuasive friend.

The groom-to-be grinned from ear-to-ear. "Thanks, Johnny! I _really_ appreciate this!"

"There's just one problem though," Gage teased.

Garnett suddenly felt somewhat nervous.

"It's gonna hafta be from 10:00 p.m. til the shift-change," his replacement specified, "or I can't make it."

Greg's face lit back up. He latched onto his generous colleague's right hand and practically shook his arm from its socket. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, Johnny!"

"You're welcome, welcome, welcome," Gage assured him and promptly pulled his hand back. "Good luck, Greg!"

"Thanks! Yahoo-oo!" the happy paramedic declared and hurried back over to his Rescue Squad.

John suddenly thought of something. "Hey, Greg!" he called after his fleeing friend. "Who am I gonna be workin' with?"

Garnett was in the process of sliding in behind the wheel. He cringed and hollered back, "Craig Brice!" Then he slammed his door shut, backed up, turned around and drove off, before Johnny could change his mind about working for him.

"John Gage and Craig Brice," Kelly dramatically declared, "working…together. Sheesh! That could be even more fun to watch than 'Godzilla and The Smog Monster'!"

Marco was amused to no end. "What do you mean? They **are** 'Godzilla and The Smog Monster'! Sure! Gage is Godzilla…and Brice is The Smog Monster."

"Yeah," Chet chimed in. "And, by the end of the shift, LA will be completely destroyed…and only one of them will be left standing. I'm betting it's The Smog Monster."

"No way!" Marco countered. "I predict Godzilla, here, will prevail! No matter how many armor-piercing rockets are launched against him, Godzilla _always_ manages to recover in time to make it into the next movie."

Speaking of Godzilla…

Gage hadn't moved, or spoken, since being informed of his temporary partner's identity.

Kelly studied their statue-like companion carefully for a few moments and then turned to Lopez. "We might have to use the Heimlich Maneuver on him," he teased and was immediately rewarded with some movement.

A slight smile played upon the paramedic's lips. "Heimlich Maneuver…" he grumbled beneath his breath and gave both of his mustached amigos an eye-roll. His gaze returned to the spot in the lot where Greg had just been standing and his face filled with a grimace. "Crai-aig Bri-ice?"

"What happened?" his permanent partner suddenly pondered.

John jerked, in startlement, and quickly spun around.

Mike and the Cap and Roy were standing right there and, judging by the amused looks on their faces, the three men had witnessed everything that had just transpired.

"Did you forget about your New Year's resolution _already_?" DeSoto inquired further.

"This is still the Old Year," John stated, in his defense. "My resolution doesn't really take affect 'til _after_ midnight." He stopped and stared back across the lot at THE spot. "Crai-aig Bri-ice?" he whined—again. "The _perfect_ ending for such a _perfect_ shift!"

The rest of the guys exchanged highly amused glances…and then began heading for their cars.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Four**

The _Twelve Alarm_ was an old, two-story, redbrick firehouse that had been completely restored—and then renovated—into a family restaurant/lounge.

The establishment was the 'labor of love' of one Andrew 'Mac' McPhearson.

Being as how the building was an old firehouse, and Mac was a retired LACFD Battalion Chief, the _Twelve Alarm_'s décor was—most appropriately—all Fire Service related.

There were dozens of paintings depicting fire scenes, hundreds of old fire department photographs, pieces of antique fire gear and equipment, and various other odd bits of fire-fighting memorabilia, mounted everywhere!

Why, liquid refreshments were even dispensed from tiny brass fire hose nozzles and the draft beer was even stored in fire-hydrant-shaped kegs.

The building's top floor housed the _Twelve Alarm_'s family restaurant. Its ground floor contained its pool tables and lounge.

The restaurant's fine cuisine, and its Fire Service theme, made it a popular hangout for off-duty LA County firemen—and their families.

Being a place where guys gathered made the establishment a magnet for girls. Which turned the _Twelve Alarm_ into an even _more_ popular hangout for _single_ off-duty LA County firemen.

* * *

The restaurant's big, antique brass cash register was situated on a circular checkout counter in the center of its large, open dining area.

In the middle of the enclosed checkout counter, was a gaping hole containing a shiny, brass fire pole. The top of the two-stories-tall pole was secured to the restaurant's ceiling, and its base, to the lounge's carpeted floor.

Mac allowed anyone who flashed a Fire Department badge access to the pole. Which meant firefighters could slide, instead of step down, into the building's first-floor lounge.

John Gage finished placing his party of three's pizza order…and then did _just that_!

* * *

Kelly and Lopez were in the process of screwing their custom pool cues together. The two men looked up just in time to see Gage come sliding into the lounge.

He was wearing a well-tailored, white, long-sleeved dress shirt, tight black blue jeans, polished black leather boots, and a broad black leather belt with a solid silver buckle engraved with his name.

The six-foot-one firefighter's rather dramatic entrance, and snazzy attire, had turned more than a few female heads in the room.

* * *

"They said it could be awhile," John reported, as he rejoined his friends. "Orders are a little backed-up, on account a' this crazy holiday crowd." He pulled a cue stick right from the wall rack and rolled it across the closest pool table a few times, to judge how badly it was warped. The stick didn't wobble a bit. So he kept it and began chalking the little round leather strip glued to its tapered tip.

"I'll buy the first round," Chester B. volunteered. "Name your poison, gentlemen…"

"I'll take a beer," Marco told him. "Anything domestic."

"Milk," the paramedic promptly replied. "Make it a large."

Chet's mustached face scrunched up. "Mi-ilk?"

"I gotta go to work in two hours," John reminded him.

"Oh…yea-eah…right. It sucks to be you," Kelly realized and began heading for the bar.

"You sure you don't want him to bring you some _coffee_, instead?" Marco teased.

"I've already had ten cups, today. I figured I better ease up on the coffee for awhile. I'm starting to experience a little caffeine-induced 'sinus tachycardia'."

"You guys were gone most of the night, a-and most of the morning. Were you able to get _any_ sleep at all?"

"I think I may have dozed off at the Laundromat for a few minutes."

"Ma-an!" Lopez gave his weary companion a look of profound sympathy. "Chet's right. It sucks to be you."

"It _really_ sucked to be me this morning!" the paramedic confessed.

"Why-y?" Chet inquired, upon his return to their table. He set their beverage order down and picked his custom pool cue back up. "What 'sucky' things happened to you this morning?"

"First, this guy with a pacemaker gets invited over to his new neighbors for a cup of coffee. The neighbor's wife notices the guy's coffee is a little cold, so she sticks it in the microwave and turns it on. The guy's pacemaker goes on the fritz. He's in v-fib, by the time we get there. We can't get a conversion…the ambulance is delayed. So Roy and I ended up performing CPR on the guy—for over an hour!

Then—and you're not gonna _be-lie-ieve_ this one—this lady is having this New Year's Eve party tonight, right? So she decides she's gonna make a bunch of confetti for her guests, so they can have something to throw up in the air when the little hand and the big hand hit twelve," the paramedic paused, looking rather lost. "I still haven't figured out yet how she did it. But, somehow, she managed to get her little toe caught in this paper shredder. I had to stand there—for over twenty minutes—with this chick _shrieking_ in my ear—while Roy tried to disassemble the thing, so we could extricate her poor little piggy from the jaws of the terrible shredder machine. I tell yah, it was _unreal_ how that woman could scream!"

Marco was fascinated. "So…did it make confetti out of her toe?"

"Not hardly! Her toe came outta there with just a little nick. Morton told us later that it only took _one_ stitch. Which he should a' put in her _lips_!"

"Whatever became of the guy with the pacemaker?" Kelly inquired.

"Last I heard, he was still in CCU. The docs were able to recalibrate the pacemaker, and they're hopeful that he's gonna make it." John flexed his aching shoulders. "He's sure gonna have a sore chest for awhile, though…"

His companions were pleased to hear that the guy had made it.

The paramedic started pulling quarters from his pocket. "So…who's gonna break first?"

* * *

Two hours, two pizzas, seven games of pool, four beers, two large glasses of milk, and a cup of coffee later, Gage returned the cue stick to its rack.

"Ah-ah, c'mon!" Kelly moaned. "I demand retribution!"

John just smiled. "I'd love to beat you—again, Chet. Bu-ut, I gotta go to work."

Chet glanced at his watch. It was only 9:22. "What's your rush? 16's is only about eight blocks from here."

"I wanna get there early. So I won't hafta rush," Gage explained. "I _hate_ being rushed!"

"I gotta go, too," Marco announced. "My mother has invited our relatives over for a New Year's Eve party, and she's threatened to disown me if I don't show up. She told me to invite you guys, too. You coming, Chet? My mom's got _plenty_ of food!"

Chet brightened and began dismantling his pool cue. "Thanks, Marco! Don't mind if I do. Just as long as I make it home by twelve…"

Kelly's curious time comment caused Gage and Lopez to exchange glances.

Marco turned back to Chet. "Why? What happens if you're not home by midnight? Does that lemon you drive turn back into a pumpkin?"

John snickered. "Nah-ah. He turns back into a toad."

Chet gave both of his chuckling chums an annoyed glare. "There's an all-night Godzilla movie festival on channel four. 'Godzilla and The Smog Monster' starts at twelve—and I don't wanna miss it!"

Gage gave Kelly a confused stare. "I thought you just watched that movie."

"Yeah…well…it bears **re**-watching."

John was even more confused. "Isn't that the one where he takes a deep breath and blows and goes sailing across the sky—backwards?"

Kelly nodded.

Gage gasped in disbelief. "That's gotta be one of the silliest, most ridiculous movies ever made!"

"Exactly! _That's_ what makes it such a classic, cinematic treasure! It's **so** _ba-ad_…it's _good_!"

John and Marco just glanced at each other and rolled their eyes.

"You guys still comin' over to watch the bowl games at my place, tomorrow?" John wondered, as he snatched up his black leather jacket.

Both of his buddies nodded.

"I'll bring the food," Marco offered. "I'm sure there will be plenty of leftovers."

"And I'll bring the beer," Chet chimed in.

"Great!" the paramedic proclaimed, sounding both pleased and relieved. "Because I didn't get a chance to stop and shop." John tossed his jacket on and then flashed his friends a warm, slightly askew smile. "See yah next year," he teased. He bid them both a good evening and a happy New Year, and reluctantly disappeared up the stairs.

The second he was out of earshot, Kelly and Lopez turned to one another and whined—in _perfect_ unison, "Crai-aig Bri-ice!"

Gage's highly amused companions swapped grins. Then they stuck their custom cue sticks back inside their little black cases, and left for the Lopez Family's party.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Five**

John Gage arrived at Station 16 a full _fifteen minutes early_ and found Greg Garnett waiting for him out in the back parking lot. 'Uh-oh…This can't be good,' he thought. The paramedic opened his car door and started to step out.

"Gage! Thank God!" Garnett grabbed his replacement by the arm and began dragging him toward the building's back entrance. "Squad 36 just put in a request for additional squa—"

"—Wait! I hafta—"

"—They're at a T.A. over on Milbourne. Which means **we** are gonna be getting the ca—"

"—Greg, let me—"

"—And the response time to a T.A. over on Milbourne, counting treatment on scene, hospital follow up, and the ride back here, will make me over an **hour la**—"

"—Greg! Will you just—"

"—I can't afford to be an **hour late**! I mean, I can't just walk in her front door and say: Cindy, will you marry me? I need some time to set the moo—"

They'd reached the brick building's open back entrance and the loud blaring of the Station's tones drowned out the rest his words.

Both the back entryway and the garage were well lit. Which allowed Greg to get a good look at the way his replacement was dressed. The pushy—er, pully paramedic froze in the open doorway and a look of pure panic filled his face.

His upset captive was finally able to plant his feet and pull his arm free. "Don't _rush_ me! I hate being—"

"—**Squad 16…Squad 12…**" the dispatcher suddenly cut in, "**Assist Squad 36 with a multiple injuries traffic accident…in the 1200 block of East Milbourne Avenue…one-one-two-zero East Milbourne…Time out…22:45**"

Greg's facial expression changed from pure panic…to shock and horror…and, finally, utter disbelief. Johnny was _still in his street clothes_! "Where's your _uniform_?"

Gage gave Garnett an angry glare. "**That's** what I was _trying_ to tell you! It's _out in my car_!"

"Squad 16…KMG 393," Captain Mason acknowledged. He passed Craig a copy of the call slip and then aimed a rather annoyed glare of his own at the two statue-like paramedics, standing in the Station's back entrance. "Will one of you kindly get yourself into this squad!" he ordered more than asked.

Greg gave the Captain a desperate, pleading look.

John gave the Captain a confused, questioning look.

Mason, who'd been informed of Garnett's _engaging_ plans for the evening, momentarily allowed compassion to cloud his better judgment. "Keep your turnout coat and helmet on—_at all times_—Gage! And change into your **complete** uniform, the _instant _you get back!"

"Aye, aye, Cap!" John promised and quickly climbed into the passenger's side of the squad. "I'm gonna need your assessment kit!" he shouted out to Greg.

Garnett unclipped his paramedic's assessment kit from his belt and tossed it into the truck's open window, just as it began pulling out of the parking bay. "Thanks, Cap!" the groom-to-be told Mason. "Thanks _again,_ Johnny!" he called after his departing replacement.

"Don't mention it…" Gage grumbled, still sounding somewhat miffed. He _hated_ being rushed. He slid Garnett's helmet on—repeatedly, and was finally able to adjust its band to a comfortable fit. He snugged up its chinstrap and then turned his attention toward his temporary partner. "_You_ know where we gotta go?"

Brice nodded—once.

"Good. Because **I** sure don't know how to get there."

His temporary partner made no attempt to respond.

The squad's driver seemed pretty intent on completely ignoring its passenger.

* * *

In fact, Brice drove the whole entire way to the accident scene without giving Gage so much as a single glance.

* * *

Within eight minutes, they'd reached the 1200 block of East Milbourne Avenue. It appeared as though four vehicles were involved in the multiple injuries T.A.

* * *

John jumped out, shrugged his leather jacket off and tossed it onto the truck seat. He clipped Garnett's assessment kit to his belt and then went to pull the compartment containing Greg's turnout coat open. "Ah-ah!" he cried out in agony, as something in his right wrist gave—but the compartment door didn't. He grimaced and gasped and stood there, flexing his wrenched wrist and staring down at the stuck door, in complete confusion. "What the—?"

"I see DeSoto didn't warn you about the compartments," Brice said, as he came trotting around the back of the squad. He inserted a key and twisted it. "I like to keep them locked, at all times."

John just continued to stand there and watch, as Craig continued to insert and twist his key into _each and every_ compartment's lock. "No. No-o. He di—wha—_why-y_?" he wondered, but then gasped in frustration. "Never mind. We can discuss it later…on the way back to the Station." He pulled the now unlocked compartment containing Garnett's turnout gear open, donned the coat, grabbed the bio-phone and the drug box and went jogging off across the debris-strewn street.

* * *

Gage trotted past several police squad cars, a couple of completely demolished sports cars and up to two other paramedics, who were busy working on one of the vehicles' severely injured occupants. "What d'yah got, Mark?"

Squad 36 paramedic Mark Griesen glanced up. "A bloody mess! Everybody's been triaged and tagged! Just pick a car and go to work!"

John nodded and went to work.

* * *

Forty-five frantically busy minutes later…

John heard the sound of metal grating on pavement and turned to watch a wrecker tow a badly mangled vehicle away, clearing one of the busy street's three lanes for traffic.

'Take the human bodies to the hospital, the car bodies to the junkyard. Sweep up the broken glass and debris. Wait for one good rain to wash the crimson stains from the street…and the stage will be all set for the _next_ real life tragedy,' the paramedic thought, rather morbidly. There were times when he just wished he wasn't one of the _stagehands_.

Watching the final curtain come down on peoples' lives would never be an easy thing for him. In fact, it was the hardest part of his job. He used to rationalize that 'Oh well, _somebody_ has to do it.'

But a young kid had just died in his arms, and—right then—he just wished it could've been somebody _other_ than him.

"I got it, Malcolm!" Gage said, latching onto the side of a stretcher and helping an attendant load it into the back of a waiting ambulance.

"Thanks, Johnny!"

"No problem!"

One of Squad 12's paramedics climbed in with the victim.

The ambulance's back doors were closed and it sped off, with its lights flashing, its siren blaring—and Squad 12 trailing in its wake.

Mark Griesen heaved a heavy sigh. "Well," he stated wearily, "that's the last of them…" The relieved rescuer then turned and flashed his reinforcements a grateful grin. "Thanks for the help, guys! Yah did great!"

Gage returned his grin. "Yeah? Well, you guys were pretty 'great', yourselves!"

One of Engine 36's guys was hosing down a fuel spill.

John jogged over asked him to spray the blood-splatter from Garnett's turnout coat.

The guy agreed.

Not desiring to get wet, the paramedic removed the bloody coat and then held it out at arm's length.

Griesen saw Gage's strange attire and turned to Brice. "What's he doing dressed _like that_? That don't exactly look like a _standard regulation uniform_!"

"It's not supposed to," Brice replied, his voice and expression _perfectly_ serious. "Gage is working _undercover_."

Mark's jaw dropped.

John caught the comment and was forced to grin.

"It's something new the Department is trying," Craig solemnly continued.

The _undercover_ paramedic pursed his lips. Gage gave the guy from 36's a grateful grin. Then he redonned his soggy—but clean—coat, and started gathering up their gear.

"If one of us botches something up," Brice went on as he, too, began to gather up their equipment cases, "the paramedic dressed as a helpful bystander assumes full responsibility for it. That way, the Fire Department avoids a costly lawsuit, and the paramedic dressed in street clothes simply disappears into the crowd, protected from any damages' suits—under California's Good Samaritan Law."

John and Mark couldn't help but laugh.

Heck! Everyone, within earshot of Craig's comments, was now chuckling.

Brice somehow managed to maintain his _perfectly_ straight face. Which he suddenly turned toward his temporary partner. "I am afraid this new 'undercover' policy will only work _in theory_. I for one feel—and I think Griesen, here, would agree—that you are simply too good at what you do. _You_ could never pass yourself off as an _innocent by-stander_. The odds of someone—randomly stepping from the crowd and successfully establishing an IV in a _nearly collapsed_ vein—are simply too astronomical. So, when we get back to the Station, I strongly recommend that you change into your _uniform_. I'll explain to the Captain. I'm sure he'll understand."

Gage realized this must just be Brice's way of saying he did okay. He gave Craig a grateful nod, and then said, with a smile, "Thanks! I'll be sure to do that!"

Griesen turned to Gage and grinned. "It must be a real joy, working with someone who has such a _great_ sense of humor!"

John replaced his equipment cases and then watched, as Craig started locking all the compartments back up. "Yea-eah," he agreed, his hushed voice filled with sarcasm. "He's a regular laugh a minute…"

Mark caught the quiet comment and his grin broadened. "Bye, guys!"

"See yah around, Mark!" John called after him. Then he turned to his temporary partner. "Loo-ook…when we leave the Squad unprotected, the drug box and bio-phone are _with us_."

"True. But we carry a lot of other valuable supplies and equipment, as well."

"That is true," Gage was forced to agree. "But why are you locking the doors _now_? _We_'re the only ones here! You afraid _one of us_ is gonna _steal_ the equipment?"

"I am merely following Department Regulations. Department Regulations state that all compartments, on all Rescue Squads, shall be kept locked when not in actual use."

"When **what** is not in actual use? THEY don't say whether it's the compartments or the Rescue Squads."

"They mean the compartments, of course."

"You sure? They don't actually come right out and _say_ 'the compartments', now do they…"

"Perhaps not. But _that_ is what they are _inferring_ to."

"They may be _inferring_ that to _you_. To _me_ they are inferring to when the _Rescue Squads_ are not in actual use. An' another thing…If you're so 'hep' on following regulations—_to the letter_, why did you leave the compartments open after we took out the gear? Why didn't you _lock_ them back up when they were _no longer in actual use_?"

"There was no need, with two police officers standing right—" Brice cut the rest of his remark off and heaved a sigh of resignation. "Your point is well taken."

"Great! Then, we can keep the compartments **un**locked?"

His fellow paramedic appeared horrified at the very notion. "Of course not. I meant your point about there being _no exceptions_ given in the Department's regulations."

Gage stared at Brice in disbelief. He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the sudden '_bleep_' ing of their Squad's radio.

"**Squad 16…What is your status?**"

Gage reached into their truck's open passenger door and grabbed its dash-mounted mic'. "LA, Squad 16 is available at scene…"

"**10-4, Squad 16…Standby for a response…**"

John climbed the rest of the way into the truck and closed the door.

Craig slid his body back behind the wheel and his helmet back on his head.

Two seconds later, their Station's tones sounded.

"**Squad 16…Management at the Diamond Groove Disco reports a woman down…unknown cause…1411 West Corey Blvd…cross-streets Nathan and Paris…one-four-one-one West Corey…Ambulance is responding…Time out…23:03**"

John jotted the address down on a call slip and then thumbed the radio's mic' again. "10-4, LA…Squad 16 is responding. Request ETA at our incident of police back-up…" He caught Craig's questioning glance and shrugged. "What can I say? I'm basically a very insecure guy," he joked, over the sound of their siren.

It was several blocks before the dispatcher finally got back to them.

"**Squad 16…No police back-up has been dispatched to your incident…No officers are available for routine follow-ups at this time…Authorities advise that you assess your situation thoroughly—for just cause—before requesting police assistance…**"

John stared down at the mic' in his hand. "Well, now, that's just great!" he insincerely exclaimed. "They'll only come _when_ we need 'em real bad! And I want 'em to come _before_ we need 'em real bad!"

"**Squad 16…Did you copy that last?**"

Gage exhaled an exasperated gasp and reluctantly thumbed the call button. "Squad 16…Roger that, LA."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Six**

Less than five minutes later…

Brice braked Squad 16 to a stop, about fifty feet from the Diamond Groove Disco's front doors, and cut its siren.

Judging by the long line of people waiting to get inside the club, the Diamond Groove was apparently a real 'happening' place to spend New Year's Eve.

* * *

John eyed the rather large, 'masked and costumed' rowdy crowd for a couple of seconds. "Pull right up in front of the main entrance," he nervously requested. "The area has a lot better lighting," he quickly added, catching his partner's questioning glance. "A-and I want us to be able to make a fast getaway…if we have to."

Craig obligingly pulled the truck ahead and then parked it, _almost_ right in front of the club's main entrance.

The two men bailed out, and one of them waited—impatiently—for the other to unlock the compartments containing their gear.

"There is a medical term for your condition, Gage," Brice determined, as he began inserting and twisting his key. "Paranoia."

"I'm just being cautious."

"_Overly_ cautious," Craig quickly corrected.

John could feel his BP beginning to rise. "Talk about paranoia! _You_ keep every compartment in the entire Squad _locked_!… _At all times_!"

"I am merely following Departmental—"

"—Oh! That's rich!" Gage angrily interrupted. "When **I'm** 'overly cautious', **I'm** being _paranoid_! When **you're** 'overly cautious', **you** are merely_ following Departmental Procedures!_" He grabbed some of their gear and then elbowed the empty compartments' doors closed—rather forcefully. "We-ell? Go ahead. You'd better hurry up and _lock_ 'em! Lock the _front_ doors, too, while you're at it. Somebody could steal the _call slip_! In fact, maybe you should sit out here on the hood—so nobody _steals the battery_!" The paramedic completed his angry outburst and went stomping past the club's front door bouncer.

Craig calmly finished locking the Squad's compartments. Then he picked his equipment up, and followed his complaining partner into the club.

* * *

Brice found Gage waiting—impatiently—for him in the entryway.

The two men stepped up to a man behind a counter and requested the where-abouts of the woman in need of medical assistance.

The guy complimented them on the authenticity of their costumes and props, and then informed them that they would have to pay a cover charge of $3.50—each—to get inside.

They assured him that they were the _real _deal, and that _management_ had summoned them to the club for a _real_ medical emergency.

The man behind the counter remained somewhat skeptical, but—reluctantly—waved them both inside.

* * *

The firemen carried their medical equipment into the club and were immediately assaulted by colorful flashing strobe lights and LOUD pulsating music.

Fittingly, the 'groovy' club's décor was _diamonds_. The walls were covered with huge, diamond-shaped mirrors. The dance floor's pulsating tiles were patterned in the shape of diamonds. There were rotating disco balls suspended from the ceiling and even _their_ tiny mirrors were all in the shape of—diamonds.

The dimly lit nightclub was packed to capacity, and the whirling and twirling, and bumping and boogying couples were obviously enjoying the combination New Year's Eve/Costume party—immensely!

* * *

The paramedic's wove their way over to the bar.

"Did somebody here call the Fire Department?" John half-shouted, to be heard over the blaring, diamond-shaped speaker that was embedded in a nearby wall.

The bartender picked a phone up from behind the bar and pressed a button. His lips moved for a few moments. Then he hung up and nodded to them. "Ladies' Lounge!" he half-shouted back, and pointed off across the dance floor. "Right down that hallway! Third door on the left!"

They gave the guy a pair of grateful nods and began weaving their way over to the Ladies' Lounge, getting complimented on the authenticity of their costumes and props, all along the way.

* * *

The firemen stepped down the designated hallway and stopped in front of the third door on the left.

John set their drug box and bio-phone on the floor and began knocking. "LA County Fire Department!" he shouted out. "We're coming in!" he warned and started opening the door.

No one screamed.

So he picked the drug box and base kit back up and stepped into the Ladies' Lounge.

Craig followed him inside.

* * *

The two of them gazed around the Lounge's elegantly furnished interior for a few silent moments. Then they glanced at each other and exhaled a pair of exasperated gasps.

The plush, red-velvet sofa and four matching lounge chairs were devoid of any victim. In fact, the entire room was _empty_! There wasn't a 'woman down' _anywhere_!

They heard a toilet flush and a metal door bang.

There was the sound of water running in a sink and then paper toweling being torn.

A few moments later, an extremely attractive young lady came out of the adjoining washroom, wearing a pair of tight, figure-flattering, faded blue jeans and an old worn T-shirt, tied at the waist. Judging by the bright yellow hard hat perched upon her pretty blonde head and the lunch pail clasped in her delicate left hand, _her_ costume was that of a construction worker.

The girl didn't act the least bit surprised to find the two firemen standing there. "Hi, fellahs!" she greeted them with a grin. "You're a little _lost_, aren't you?" She stepped up to an ornately framed mirror and set her lunch pail and hard hat down on a ledge. "The only thing _burning_ around _here_ is the dance floor." She opened the pail, pulled a make-up compact from it and started powdering her nose.

The two fellahs sighed and set their heavy equipment cases down.

"Was there a woman lying down in here when _you_ came in?" Gage suddenly inquired.

The girl gazed at his reflection in the mirror, looking thoughtful. "Yeah. The Bride of Dracula." She replaced the compact and began brushing her hair. "I remember thinking how she really _looked_ the part…Sorry," she added, realizing her comment was unkind. "Why? Did you lose your date?"

John glanced around the Ladies' Lounge. The fire_man_ suddenly felt extremely awkward and out of place. "We…uh…we got a call that a woman was sick…well down…well in need of medical attention…and we were told that she was in here…But she's not in here…and she probably wasn't…in need of medical attention, that is."

The girl found the tall stranger's obvious embarrassment endearing. She picked her lunch pail/purse up, tossed the hard hat back on her head, and then quickly closed the gap between them. "I tell yah what," she proposed, latching onto his left hand and giving it a slight squeeze, "if it'll make you feel any better, you can give _me_ a-all the 'attention' you would've given _her_…"

Gage gulped and then glanced at Brice.

Craig rolled his eyes and started reaching for the HT that was strapped to his left wrist.

"My name's Karen," the girl introduced. "What's yours?"

"LA, Squad 16 is available at the scene. Cancel the ambulance."

John pulled his trapped appendage free and snatched the radio from his partner's hands. "LA, Squad 16. Correction. Cancel the ambulance, but show us Code 7 at this address. Also, standby for possible request for police back up…"

"**10-4, Squad 16…LA standing by…**"

Gage handed the HT back to Brice.

Craig was just standing there, in a state of shock and confusion.

John exhaled another exasperated gasp. "Don't you see? This has _gotta_ be a _setup_!"

Brice's confusion gave way to disbelief. "You really _are_ paranoid. We get a 'no show' at a disco…and, right away, you _assume_ someone is _setting us up_?"

"Okay. I admit. I may be mistaken. But I really don't think so! And we ain't leavin' here til we check it out!" Gage slid his helmet and turnout coat off and passed them to his doubting partner. "Can I borrow that?" he asked the pretty miss, and pointed to her hard hat.

The girl was somewhat stunned by the stranger's _new_ 'look'. She nodded, rather numbly.

"Thanks!" the paramedic adjusted the hat's band. Then he tossed it on his head and started heading for the door. "Stay put," he advised Brice. "And, if I'm not back here in five minutes, call for the back-up!"

Brice headed his rapidly departing partner off at the door. "Where are _you_ going?"

John suddenly recalled Craig's dry-humored joke from earlier in the evening and smiled, rather wryly. "_Undercover_," he teased, and immediately took his leave.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Seven**

John stepped out into the hall and nearly collided with a young lady dressed as Little Red Riding Hood.

The girl stood there in the hallway, giving him a strange, suspicious stare.

"Uhhh…Sorry," he apologized, speaking in Spanish. "I, uh, must a' opened the wrong door. Sorry," he repeated and began backing down the hall.

He reached the end of the hallway and winced, as the LOUD music and pulsating strobe lights assaulted his senses once again. He heaved a heavy sigh and started weaving his way back across the crowded dance floor.

* * *

"Hi!" Gage half-shouted to the guy behind the bar. "I need to speak to the manager!"

The bartender had a kind a' funny look on his face.

The paramedic smiled, as he realized the poor guy was probably trying to figure out why his visitor's voice sounded so familiar.

The bartender picked up his phone again. Once more, his lips moved. He then replaced the phone and nodded—again.

The _undercover_ fireman felt a hand on his shoulder and he was spun, rather forcefully, around. John suddenly found himself face-to-face with a big, brawny, mean looking dude, wearing a Western outfit, and a bright, shiny Sheriff's badge. Upon his right hip was a rather large holstered gun—which looked far too real to be a _prop_. "Upstairs!" the big dude ordered gruffly.

"Uh-uh…Can't we just talk over the phone?"

"Follow me!" the Sheriff said and started heading toward a spiral staircase.

John tipped his borrowed hardhat to the bartender and obediently followed after him.

* * *

The spiral stairs led to a small cubicle suspended over the bar area. They reached the top step and a heavy metal door slid open. John followed the Sheriff into the little cubicle.

A man, with his back turned toward them, was seated at a DJ's console, watching the club's partying patrons through an enormous, diamond-shaped, two-way mirror.

The metal door slid shut and there was complete silence in the tiny—apparently soundproof—room.

"There, Arnie!" the guy behind the console suddenly exclaimed, and pointed to a couple out on the dance floor. "See them? Romeo and Juliet! Gawd they're good! And graceful, too!" The man spun his chair around, whipped his headset off and glared—annoyedly—up at the guy in the bright yellow hardhat. "You wanted to see me?"

John nodded. "Did _you_ call the Fire Department?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I did. But I can assure you that nothing is burning—" the manager stopped suddenly and turned to the Sheriff. "Is that fire truck _still_ here?"

Arnie nodded.

The club's DJ looked outraged. "Well, find those clowns and tell them to move it! _Right no-ow_! They're hurting business!"

Arnie gave his boss another nod and turned to leave.

Gage stepped between the lawman and the door, blocking his exit. "Wait just a sec'," he requested. Then he leaned to his left, so he could see around Arnie, and addressed the manager once more. "Why did you call the Fire Department?"

"Ahhh, some chick, dressed up like Dracula's Bride, doubled over on the dance floor. I didn't think it was anything serious. But she insisted that I call the paramedics. Threatened to sue, if I didn't—" the manager turned to Arnie again. "Speaking of paramedics…What are they still doing here, anyway? I just saw the sick chick leave here with some cowboy, not two minutes ago, looking very healthy—for one of the living dead!" The DJ turned back to his visitor. "What's with the questions? Who are you?"

"I'm, uh, one of the clowns responsible for parking the fire truck on your front doorstep," the questioner confessed.

The manager exchanged astonished glances with the Sheriff and then gazed, disbelievingly, at his guest. "If you're a fireman, than why aren't you dressed like one?"

John pulled his wallet from a back pocket and flashed them both his Fire Department badge and I.D. "I'm working a split shift for a friend and I didn't have time to change. And, right now, I don't have time to explain. I've gotta get outside!" He turned toward the door and started searching for a knob, or a button, or _something_.

"Why?" the manager wondered.

"We have reason to believe that we were lured here under false pretenses, for the purpose of being robbed."

"That's ridiculous! Who would ever wanna rob firemen? You don't even have anything worth steal—" the DJ halted in mid-sentence. "You guys carry a lot of _drugs_, don't you…"

"We carry _small_ quantities of several different narcotics," the paramedic confessed.

"But enough to help some kids celebrate the New Year, I'll bet…What do you intend to do about it?"

"I'm going to go check out our Squad. If there's a lady vampire, or a cowboy, standing so much as within a hundred feet of it, we're calling for police assistance."

"There's no need to get the cops involved. Arnie, here, will just go out there and scare them off."

"We don't wanna just scare 'em off. We want to catch them and stop them from ever trying to pull something like this again." Gage gave up on finding a knob and glanced back over his shoulder. "Can you get the door, here?"

The manager reluctantly pressed a button on the side of his console.

The heavy portal slid open and John was hit, full force, by a wall of smoky air and LOUD pulsating music. "Thanks. You've been a big help!" he called back over his shoulder. Then he skipped down the spiral stairs, stepped into the swaying crowd of costumed dancers…and disappeared.

* * *

"I'm just gonna step out for a breath of fresh air," Gage explained to the cover charge guy behind the counter in the entryway. "But I'm coming right back in."

The guy nodded, disinterestedly.

* * *

There was still a rather long line of people waiting—er, hoping to get into the popular nightspot.

The _undercover_ paramedic stepped out onto the crowded sidewalk and his heart about stopped.

A young man, wearing a mask and a cowboy costume, was leaning against their Squad's front grill, talking to a lady vampire.

John took a few deep breaths of fresh air into his lungs and then sauntered a few feet closer to the street, hoping to catch a little of their conversation.

"Where the hell are they?" he heard the Midnight Cowboy wonder. "They should a' been out by now…"

"How should I know? Maybe they fell in?" Drac's bride bitterly suggested.

The cowboy came up with a suggestion of his own. "I say we go find Gillian...and then split."

"We've waited this long. Let's just give 'em a couple more minutes."

Gage had overheard enough—more than enough. The tired fireman yawned and stretched. Then he nonchalantly turned back around and leisurely strolled up to the club's main entrance.

* * *

Just as John was about to rejoin the party, someone latched onto him by his right arm and jerked him to a stop.

"$3.50 to get in, buddy!" he heard that someone say.

The fireman turned and found an unfamiliar, unsmiling face glaring at him from behind the entrance counter. "Look, I already was in. I just stepped out for some air."

But the new guy was not buying his story. He kept a firm grip on the storyteller's arm and stared down at the back of its attached hand. "So where's your _stamp_? _Everyone_ who goes in gets a _stamp_!" he smugly added and squeezed the liar's arm for emphasis.

John winced in pain and started digging out his wallet. 'Why did they have to change shifts NO-OW?' He removed a five-dollar bill and begrudgingly extended it to the gloating guy. He winced again, as the man moved his vice-like grip to his wrist and his right hand was slammed down on the counter.

The now grinning guy stamped the back of it—**very** _hard_.

Gage grimaced, outright, and promptly pulled his hurting hand back. The fireman frowned down at the bright blue diamond stamp. One thing was certain. Working 'undercover' had its advantages…and disadvantages.

The man behind the counter passed him back his change. "_Everyone_!"

John gave the guy an annoyed glare and then left…for the Ladies' Lounge.

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Eight**

John hurried down the hallway, past a lo-ong line of flustered females all waiting to get into the Ladies' Lounge.

Little Red Riding Hood was the first in line and the girl gave him another strange, suspicious stare.

"I, uh, forgot my plunger," he explained and attempted to gain access to the Lounge.

"Sorry, but you can't come in yet!" he heard Craig say. "The toilets are backed up and we're still mopping!"

Gage couldn't help but grin. "It's _me-e_!"

"Ga-age!" Craig exclaimed, relief evident in his voice.

The door opened and John ducked inside.

"What took you so long?"

"Never mind that. This is definitely a setup. Besides Mrs. Dracula and her cowboy friend, there's—at least—one other person in on it. Did you call for the back-up?"

Craig appeared duly contrite and gave his head a reluctant shake.

Gage exhaled a groan of disappointment. "They'll get away for sure, no-ow. They can't understand why it's taking us so long to leave. They're talking about splitting."

"I decided to give you another minute," his temporary partner explained. "But I was just about to call when you arrived." He turned to Karen. "Wasn't I…"

Karen nodded. "He really was! Gosh this is **so** _exciting_!"

John took the HT from Craig and thumbed its call button. "LA, Squad 16. Request police assistance at our location…" He gave his fellow paramedic a glum glance. "Wish there was a way we could keep them here until the back-up arrives…"

"There may _be_ a way…" Brice thoughtfully determined. Then he turned to Karen and smiled—rather deviously.

* * *

"10-4, LA." John released the call button and lowered their HT. "Well, I told them to respond Code 3, and to look for a lady vampire and a masked cowboy and—" he paused, looking miserable, "—I'll bet the cops are thinkin' _**we**__ can't possibly be __**sober**_…" He started reaching for his turnout coat and helmet.

His temporary partner stopped him. "Go back undercover and spread it around that the paramedics will be bringing their victim out, shortly."

John stared at Craig in confusion for a couple of seconds and then turned to Karen. "Yeah…Yea-eah! That just might work!" He held out his blue diamond stamped hand. "Give me the keys…"

"Why?"

"Our victim is gonna need a backboard."

Brice dug the keys out and dropped them into his partner's open palm. "You're not considering going back out there…" he hopefully stated.

"No," Gage assured him. "I'll send the Sheriff." He turned and started heading for the door. "I'll be back in a minute." He glanced at their victim.

The young lady's lovely blue eyes were sparkling with excitement.

John was forced to smile. "Be ready to transport." That said, he shoved the chair they were using to keep the door closed away, and disappeared out into the hall.

* * *

The paramedic cringed as at least a dozen riled, costumed females immediately converged upon him—all _demanding_ to know what was going on in the Ladies' Lounge. Gage realized he wasn't gonna get away without giving them some kind of an explanation. "Uh-uh, ladies…Ladies? LADIES! _Calm down_, ladies!"

The ladies quieted down…some.

"Uh-uh…" John decided to go along with Craig's original story. "There's been a plumbing accide—"

"—Yeah! We know! We Know!" a feisty redhead, dressed as a belly dancer, interrupted. "The toilets are backed up and you're _still mopping_…Ri-ight?"

"Uh-uh, no. No. We've finished mopping. But the paramedics are still in there, working on their victim. They'll be out in just a minute or two, if you'll just let me go—so I can get them a backboard out of their Rescue Squad. See for yourselves," he invited, as some of the ladies remained highly dubious. "It's parked right outside the front door."

Several of the women admitted to seeing the fire truck, all right.

The skeptics believed _them_…and began to back off.

John breathed a lo-ong sigh of relief and then made another attempt to leave. He gasped in exasperation, as he was again held back.

Little Red Riding Hood had grabbed a hold of his belt. "You forgot your plunger again," she said rather sweetly. But then her hazel eyes narrowed into angry slits. "What have you done to Karen?"

"She's fine! Honest!" the forgetful plumber assured her. Gage could tell—by the look on the girl's face—that his words had fallen on deaf ears. "Look, would you like to see for yourself?" he offered and dug his wallet out.

Red looked even more suspicious and confused. The stranger's true identity was inconsistent with how he was attired. "You _bet_ I would!"

Gage stepped back up to the door. "Brice! Open up!"

The portal opened a crack. "Where's the backboard?" Craig inquired, upon noting his partner's empty hands.

"Don't ask. This young lady, here, would like to talk to your victim."

"All right," Brice grabbed the young lady by the arm and pulled her into the Lounge. "But not for long. She's very weak."

The door closed.

Gage managed an amused gasp. Then he turned and hurried off down the hall.

* * *

Craig shoved the chair back in front of the door and then escorted Red over to his victim's side. "Karen? Karen! You have a visitor…"

Karen was lying, motionless, on the sofa. She emitted a pitiful moan and forced her eyes open a crack. Suddenly, her peepers snapped fully open and she propped herself up on her elbows. "Hi, Nance!"

'Nance' was too stunned to return her friend's cheerful greeting. "Karen, what is going on around here?" She studied her friend's heavily bandaged left leg…and the IV tubing taped to her friend's right wrist. "You were gone so long, I was beginning to think you must a' fell in! So I decided to come and rescue you. But these two firemen beat me to it. Then this Spanish guy, who ain't _really_ Spanish, comes out—wearing _your_ hardhat! Then you keep the door shut and tell everybody the toilets are backed up! Then the guy in the hardhat comes back for his plunger! Then he comes out—without it—and says there's been this terrible accide—"

"—Oh, Nance! It's all a put on! None of this is _real_!" Karen held up her right wrist. "See? No needle! Just a lot a' tubing and tape and bandages! I'm helping these two—really cool—_undercover_ firemen catch a gang of notorious 'dope fiends'!"

The 'really cool' fireman winced and shuddered and then placed an oxygen mask over his victim's nose and mouth—especially her mouth. "I'm afraid there's been a BIG misunderstanding…"

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Nine**

John made it back to the Lounge in less than three minutes. He carted the backboard into the room and set it down on the carpeted floor beside the sofa. "Well, I spread it around. And I had Arnie spread it outside, too. He says the cowboy is still standing in front of the Squad."

His partner seemed pleased. "What do you think?" he inquired and motioned to his finished product.

Gage stared down at their _heavily_ bandaged victim, his facial expression a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "It's a bit _thick_. Isn't it?"

"Well, we have been in here a lo-ong time," Brice reminded him.

His partner's slight smile graduated into a grin. "I gue-uess…"

The paramedics placed Karen down on the backboard and then proceeded to completely immobilize her.

John suddenly realized that their victim's friend's right arm was in a sling.

"Your plumbing accident has claimed another victim," Red explained.

"Good news!" Gage announced, stepping up to the girl and sliding her arm from the sling. "You've just experienced a _miraculous_ cure! And it's a lucky thing, too. Because, with the two of us on the backboard, we're gonna be needin' _both_ of your arms to carry our equipment."

The girl's pretty face filled with disappointment.

"Here," the paramedic rearranged the sling into an impressive looking head wrap and then ushered her up to a mirror. "You fell again…and now have a severe scalp laceration."

Red took the news surprisingly well. In fact, she appeared to be downright delighted.

John just _had_ to smile. His smile suddenly vanished and he turned in Craig's direction, as the handheld radio that was strapped to his wrist began to '_bleep_'.

"**Squad 16…Be advised…Police back-up is now at your location…Officers on scene request you delay your departure until they can get into position…**"

"10-4, LA. Squad 16 delaying departure," Brice replied and began piling gear onto the backboard with their victim. He handed Nance their trauma kit and bio-phone.

"Gosh! These are heavier than they look!" Nance complained.

Gage placed the hardhat and lunch pail down on the board and then slid his turnout coat and helmet back on. He placed their victim's IV packet between his teeth and then stooped down to pick up the foot of the backboard.

Brice stooped and latched onto its opposite end.

"On two," John told him, through clenched teeth. "One…two."

They raised the backboard off the floor and themselves to their feet.

Gage got himself turned around and then led the way over to the door.

Nance set the bio-phone on the floor, so she could shove the chair aside and hold the Lounge door open for them.

* * *

The 'ladies in waiting' gasped in horror as the paramedics exited the Lounge with their victims. Their 'How is she?'s and 'What happened?'s filled the crowded hall.

John was saved from having to reply, by the IV packet he'd strategically stuck between his teeth. He suppressed a grin and listened, as his partner patiently explained how the two ladies slipped on the wet floor after the toilets backed up.

Craig went on to truthfully announce that both girls would _soon_ be _just fine_, and that the Ladies' Lounge had been officially certified as being perfectly safe and dry.

The waiting ladies were tremendously relieved to hear the news. Especially that last part, about the Lounge. Everybody suddenly started heading for the washroom—and more _pressing_ matters.

* * *

The paramedics' little procession reached the end of the long hallway. The two men watched, as a sudden wave of frigidity rolled over the swaying, costumed couples.

The dancers stopped moving and started parting, providing them with a wide—and perfect—path to the exit.

John took very short, deliberate—er, _delaying_ steps and realized their slow and solemn exodus probably resembled a funeral procession.

* * *

The firemen left the dance floor and stepped into the club's exit/entryway.

John brought their little _procession_ to a halt in front of the counter, and then stood there, hesitating to go any further.

The cover charge guy's jaw went slack, as he saw how the 'liar' in the bright yellow hardhat and white dress shirt was now dressed.

Gage gave the gaping-mouthed man another annoyed glare. "_Not_ **everyone**," he taunted, through tightly clenched teeth. Then he glanced back over his left shoulder. "They don't expect us to actually _go out there_? _Do_ they?"

"They apparently intend to catch them _in the act_," his partner calmly replied.

John's eyes widened and he gritted his already clenched teeth even harder. "_In the act_ of doing _wha-at_? We sure can't take _these two_ out there!"

Both girls voiced their determination to 'see this thing through to the end'.

"C'mon!" Karen urged, her voice somewhat muffled by her oxygen mask. "Let's get out there and _nail_ 'em!"

Her supporters were both amazed and amused.

"Okay. _You_, we'll take," the lead fireman informed their victim. Then he turned to their equipment carrier. "You-ou, **stay** **put**!"

Nance looked tremendously disappointed, but nodded her compliance to his order.

* * *

The backboard toting paramedics _reluctantly_ exited the building and stepped out onto the crowded sidewalk.

The masked cowboy stiffened suddenly and then made a mad dash—straight for their drug box.

A plain-clothes police officer attempted to cut the assailant off, but the cowboy had built up such a tremendous head of steam, he just blew right on by the guy—and snatched up the drug box.

The plain-clothes policeman was spun completely around and ended up plowing right into the lead paramedic's solar plexus.

Gage gasped, as the air was forcefully expelled from his lungs, and he was knocked to his knees. The IV packet fell from his mouth and his face filled with a grimace.

Police were now _everywhere_—shouting out warnings and orders, scuffling with suspects in the shadows…and checking on fallen firemen.

"You two—er, three okay?" another plain-clothes officer anxiously inquired.

The first one had scrambled back onto his feet and gone racing off after the drug box thief.

"Yes. No thanks to you-ou!" Craig smartly replied and slowly lowered his end of the backboard to the sidewalk.

"There's no **law** against _standing around fire trucks_," the policeman reminded the upset paramedic.

Brice's attention suddenly turned to Gage.

His silent partner was still kneeling on the sidewalk and his hands were still holding onto the backboard. John still hadn't spoken, because his _wind_ still hadn't returned.

Craig crouched in front of his fallen comrade and placed his steadying hands upon his hunched over shoulders. "Will you be _breathing_ anytime soon?"

His _perfectly_ _calm_ question transformed Gage's grimace into a grin.

John gave his concerned associate a grateful nod and then gently set the backboard down on the sidewalk. The paramedic's breath eventually returned, in several sharply inhaled, and exceedingly painful, gasps.

"Lieutenant Bristol, LAPD," the plain-clothes officer introduced and extended a hand.

"Brice," Craig stiffly acknowledged. The still unhappy fireman stood just as stiffly. Then he reluctantly took and shook the policeman's proffered appendage.

"Gage," his partner replied. John accepted the officer's re-extended hand and was hauled up onto his feet.

All heads turned, as two uniformed officers dragged their kicking and squirming handcuffed suspects out of the shadows and into the streetlights' eerie glow.

John saw that there was a fourth member of the gang, and that he was _fittingly_ costumed as 'Count Dracula'.

The arresting officers got their first good glimpse of their suspects.

"No-ow," one of them began, "_this_ is what I call a **real** 'blood-thirsty' pair of criminals!"

Gage suppressed a grin and turned to his partner. He saw that Craig had Karen un-immobilized. He stooped and pulled the oxygen mask from their victim's pretty face. "You _sure_ you're okay?"

The girl grinned and nodded. "I'm _sure_! Gosh! That was so-o _exciting_!" She propped herself up on her elbows and stared off down the dark sidewalk. "I hope they catch that cowboy! My wallet and car keys are in that box!"

John gave his partner a confused, questioning look.

Craig calmly picked the lunch pail up and opened it.

Gage stared disbelievingly down at all the drug bottles it contained. His gaze returned to his impressive partner and he flashed him an appreciative smile.

"I don't believe in leaving anything to _chance_," Craig modestly explained, and gave the Lieutenant another annoyed glance.

John's appreciative smile broadened into an appreciative grin.

The other plain-clothes officer came scuffling back up to the Squad, half-dragging and half-carrying the handcuffed cowboy. "The posse never would a' caught 'im," he breathlessly began, "if he hadn't a' tripped on his spurs!"

Everybody within earshot grinned and snickered—with the exception of the cowboy's two accomplices, of course.

Karen was delighted to see that the cop had also managed to recover the stolen drug box.

Speaking of almost getting away…

John suddenly recalled that there was one gang member missing from the police roundup. He shed his coat and helmet, snatched up Karen's hardhat and began heading for the club.

"Whoa-oah!" the Lieutenant urged, latching on to the fleeing fireman's? arm. "Where are _you_ going?"

"I need to speak to the manager!"

"Let him go!" Karen pleaded and pulled the policeman's hand from John's arm. "He's working _undercover_!" She gulped and flashed the fireman an apologetic smile. "Gosh! I'm **so-o** _sorry_! That's supposed to be a _secret_, isn't it…"

The _undercover_ fireman gasped in frustration. "Look, I'll explain everything when I get back!" he promised. Then he turned and disappeared into the club.

Nance carried the paramedics' heavy equipment cases over to their Rescue Squad and set them down on the sidewalk. She saw the suspects that had been taken into custody and turned to her companion. "_Notorious dope fiends_?" she incredulously inquired. "They're just _kids_!"

"Yea-eah," one of the uniformed officers sarcastically agreed. "But they've been very _naughty_ tonight. So we had to take away their _toys_." He held up a .22 caliber handgun and an extremely _sharp_ looking knife.

Nance gazed at the lethal weapons for a few moments. Then she glanced back at the innocent-looking 'kids', and gulped.

Brice swallowed hard and then stood there, feeling somewhat _queasy_.

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 10

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Ten**

John waved his bright blue diamond stamp in the guy behind the counter's face and stepped nonchalantly back into the nightclub.

* * *

Although the music was blaring just as lively and LOUDLY as ever, the costumed couples no longer felt much like dancing.

Gage felt a little guilty about that as he made his way back over to the bar.

* * *

The fireman held a brief, half-shouted conference with the bartender, who then placed a quick call to his boss.

The barkeep's lips moved. Then he replaced the phone's handset and leaned across the bar. "He says a lady magician has been staring at the front entrance, ever since you two clowns came out and _crashed_ the party!"

The paramedic looked appropriately apologetic and began backing away from the bar.

* * *

John spotted their 'missing suspect' almost immediately.

'Gillian' wasn't the only patron wearing a magician's costume. But she _was_ the only lady magician who couldn't seem to take her anxious eyes off the club's front entrance.

Gage saw the Sheriff standing at the base of the spiral staircase, and hurried up to him. "Tell Lieutenant Bristol that there is a _fourth_ 'dope fiend'! Her first name's _Gillian_ and she's wearing a magician's costume!" He'd been keeping one eye on the girl the entire time. Which is why he noticed her suddenly turn and bolt for the EMERGENCY EXIT at the back of the room. "Hurry! She's getting away!"

Arnie headed for the front entrance.

John headed for the back exit.

In hindsight, it would probably have been _much_ wiser for the two men to have _reversed_ directions.

* * *

Security alarms began sounding, as the lady magician blew through the emergency fire exit and out into the alley.

The paramedic went dashing out the same door, just seconds behind her.

* * *

The fireman tackled the fleeing female from behind, and the pair went rolling across the dirty, damp alley that ran in back of the building.

The disco's fire exit door closed, and John suddenly found himself grappling with the black-costumed girl—in total darkness.

'What if she's armed?' the paramedic suddenly pondered, about three brash actions too late. 'You've slowed her down. Let the police handle it from here.' He released his grip on the invisible young lady.

Gillian started scrambling to her feet.

Instead of trying to stop her, the fireman began crawling back over to the nightclub's EMERGENCY EXIT, hoping to place a 'safe' distance between the two of them. Gage grunted and groaned involuntarily, as the feisty female proceeded to give him a good swift kick in his already tenderized ribs. He groaned again, mentally, as he realized that—even in such poor lighting conditions—his bright, white shirt must make for a pretty damn good target.

Things suddenly grew even gloomier for John Gage when the woman draped her long black cloak over the fireman's head and began whacking him on the top of his hardhat with her magic wand.

Between '_thwacks_' the paramedic could hear the sound of running footsteps—approaching from both ends of the pitch-black back alley. He decided to 'play dead'. At least, until all the guns—and suspects—were put away. So he slumped—face down—onto the cool, damp pavement and then lay there…perfectly still.

The footsteps drew closer and closer and finally stopped, just a few feet from his head. "POLICE! Don't move! You're under arrest!"

Gage exhaled a gasp of relief and started to pull the long black cloak from his head.

"I said FREEZE!" the policeman ordered icily.

The fireman FROZE. "Uh-uh…You got the WRONG guy!"

"I can see every move you make!" the cop continued. "And I'm warning you! You make _another_ one…and it'll be your LAST!"

John swallowed hard and lay there, feeling almost too scared to even breathe.

"I've got him covered. Check 'im out, Denny…and be careful! The others were armed!"

"I'm a paramedic with the Los Angeles County Fire Department," their suspect tried to explain, as the cloak was pulled from his head. His arms were wrenched back and his hands were folded onto the back of his head.

"Su-ure you are," the officer frisking him taunted, "and **we're** with the _Russian Ballet_!" The cop pulled several items from a leather holster on their suspect's belt. "Nasty! _Very_ nasty! Not your usual weapons, but _lethal_—all the same!"

"What are you talking about?" the paramedic demanded. "I'm not carrying any 'weapons'! Lethal or otherwise! I'm tellin' yah, you're making a HU-UGE mistake! Please? Just check my wallet! Check my badge and I.D.! You'll see! I'm tellin' yah the TRUTH!"

The officer pulled the wallet from their suspect's pants' pocket and passed it back to his partner.

John squinted, as a bright beam of light was suddenly shone in his face.

"Well, I'll be damned!" the light shiner quietly exclaimed. "We DO got the WRONG guy!"

The paramedic exhaled an audible sigh of relief and untensed.

"B-Bu-ut…" Denny stammered, "we came in from BOTH ends of the alley! He _can't_ be the WRONG guy! There's nobody else out here!"

John shoved the flashlight out of his face. "Look…kin I get up now?"

"Sure! Help him up, Ben."

Ben lowered his drawn weapon and obligingly assisted their _former_ suspect to his feet—er, his _unsteady_ feet. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Gage replied—er, lied. The fireman was a far cry from _okay_.

In just the past thirty-eight hours, the sleep-deprived paramedic had been:  
Trapped in a burning building—twice!  
Shoved off a cliff  
Chased by an angry Doberman  
Forced to take part in a chest-compression marathon  
Screamed at for twenty minutes  
Given a plain-clothes police officer's version of the Heimlich Maneuver  
Kicked in the ribs  
Whacked over the head with a magic wand  
A-and scared half to death, by a couple a' trigger happy cops—who had just threatened to _blow his brains out_!

And _those_ were just the highlights!

The firefighter braced his weary body against a trash bin and silently vowed that he would **never** chase another purse-snatcher, 'dope fiend'—or _any_ criminal of _any_ kind—EVER again!

"I don't get it..." Ben flashed his light's bright beam up and down the alley. "Where could he have gone?"

"He's a magician, ain't he?" Denny reminded him. "Maybe he pulled a vanishing act?"

"He's a SHE," John corrected. "And she _has_ to be here. I would've heard her lea—" he stopped talking and started tapping the trash bin he'd been leaning upon. He picked the magician's cape and wand up. He draped the black cloak over the bin and then tapped its lid three times with the wand. "Hocus pocus! I'll bet yah a million…that when you open this lid…you will find _Gillian_!"

Light flooded out into the alley, as Arnie suddenly threw the EMERGENCY EXIT door open.

John passed the magic wand to Denny. "Funny, you guys don't _sound_ Russian." That said, the Los Angeles County Fire Department paramedic spun on his heels and disappeared himself—back inside the discotheque.

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 11

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Eleven**

Speaking of staring anxiously at the nightclub's front entrance…

Brice saw Gage exit the building and breathed a silent sigh of relief. His relief was short-lived, however, as he took in his partner's once dapper—now disheveled—appearance. The manager was apparently a _hard_ person to talk to.

John's once-white shirt's tails had become un-tucked. His face was streaked with dirt. Why-y, he looked like he'd been crawling around in an alley!

But it was the fact that the paramedic was keeping a hand pressed over his left ribcage that was causing Craig the most concern. "John! Are you okay?"

Gage heard Brice address him by his _first_ name. He glanced up from his ruined white dress shirt—the only one he owned—and flashed his concerned partner a grateful smile. "Yeah, Craig. I'm okay," he assured him and kept right on smiling. "I took a magic wand in the hardhat and a boot in the ribs, but I'm okay."

This time, Brice's sigh of relief was audible.

Gage glanced around. "Where are the girls?"

Craig motioned with his head in the direction of the disco. "I let them keep the bandages. And, when the crowd saw that our victims had recovered well enough to 'bump' and 'boogie' again, it added new life to the party."

John's smile broadened into a grin. "Great! I lo-ove happy endings!" He picked his helmet and turnout coat up from the sidewalk and slid his borrowed hardhat off.

"Karen wants you to keep that. And she says not to worry. Your 'secret' is _safe_ with her."

Gage grimaced. "Yea-eah…right…my 'secret'. Man! I'd better go straighten her ou—"

"—Did they get the girl?" Lieutenant Bristol suddenly interrupted, as he came stepping up.

John nodded. "She was hiding out back, in a trash bin."

"I still don't get 'why' they wanted to rob _us_," Craig confessed. "We deliberately limit the amount of narcotics that we carry, so that we _won't_ be targeted."

"Those kids were carrying enough cash on them to _buy_ all the drugs their little hearts desired," Bristol came back. "Which tells me that they weren't doing it for the _drugs_. They were doing it for the _excitement_. They're just a bunch a' bored rich kids with too much time on their hands. I guess they figured _stealing _your drug box would be a lot more **exciting** than just going down to the street corner and _purchasing_ drugs from a pusher."

Gage exchanged a look of disbelief with his partner and then turned back toward the club's front doors.

"If you're going to try to straighten Karen out, don't bother!" Brice advised. "I've already tried—twice!"

"You mean you told her the…?"

Brice nodded.

"And she still doesn't…?"

Craig shook his head.

John was flabbergasted. "B-Bu-ut…why-y?"

"She really seems to _thrive_ on excitement. When the truth gets too dull for some people, they simply choose to believe something more _exciting_."

Gage saw that the Lieutenant was staring at his strange attire. "We got a run before I could get changed."

"That must be the truth," Bristol realized. "No one would ever 'make up' an excuse _that_ dull."

The three men swapped smiles.

"See yahs!" the officer predicted and took his leave.

John noted that his partner had their equipment all _safely_ **locked** away. "C'mon!" he urged. "I've had enough 'excitement' to last me the rest of the year!" He dragged himself up into their truck and collapsed onto its passenger seat. "The police nearly _killed_ me back there!"

"We could've both been _killed_," Craig quietly admitted, as he slid back in behind the wheel. He started the Squad up and quickly pulled away from the Diamond Groove Disco. "John, I would like to apologize for calling you paranoid, earlier. It turns out you were completely justified in being so cautious. I…I still am puzzled as to _how_ you _knew_ we were going to run into trouble though." He shot his seemingly clairvoyant associate a questioning glance.

John flashed him back a wry smile. "You want the TRUTH? Or, something more 'exciting'?"

Craig couldn't help but smile.

"I tell yah what. I'll make it multiple choice. That way, you kin believe _whatever you want._ **A:** I figured any district where you have to keep _all_ the compartments **locked**—_all the time_—has gotta be just _crawling_ with criminal types! **B:** Because e-ver-y time I've ever gone on a response to a bar—around this time of night—something rotten **always** seems to happen to me. **C:** I wasn't **sure** at all—just a little _paranoid_. Or, **D: **All of the above."

"**C** is definitely the dullest. So it is obviously the truth. But I prefer to believe **D**."

"I guess **C** is closer to the truth than any of them. But, if I am paranoid, it's because **B** is also true! It's true!" he repeated, upon receiving a skeptical glance. "I hate bars! I stepped out of one four years ago and became the victim of a hit and run driver. I stepped into one last Spring and became the victim of a black eye."

"I thought you got that black eye when that bookcase hit you."

"I tell yah, it sure felt like he hit me with a bookcase. But it was only his fist. And it's not just here in LA, either. I stepped into a bar in Seattle two weeks ago and ended up having to spend five days _locked_ in Quarantine. And then tonight—we-ell, tonight speaks for itself!"

"I confess that bad experiences have conditioned me and influenced my behavior, as well. In fact, I'm certain _that_ is why I feel so strongly about keeping the compartment doors locked."

"You had a bad experience along those lines?"

Craig nodded. "It happened when I first started working as a paramedic. We were called out to a response in a…ba-ad neighborhood. When we arrived, we were told that the victim's heart had arrested. So we just grabbed our gear and left…without taking the time to lock the compartments. When my partner and I returned, we discovered that a bunch of juvenile delinquents had completely stripped the truck."

"You're kidding!"

"Believe me. Nobody would ever 'make up' a story _that_ embarrassing."

"Well then, how come I've never heard about it before?"

"Probably because you don't read any Boston newspapers. It made the front page of every one but one—the one my uncle owns."

John had just been rendered speechless. It was a block or two before he could recover his voice. "**You**…were a _paramedic_…in BOSTON?"

Craig nodded. "I was born there. My family owns a sizeable portion of North Boston. I'd probably _still_ be living there…if it weren't for what I just told you."

"How come you don't have a Boston accent?"

"I was born there, but I wasn't raised there. You see, my family thinks very highly of education. So, as soon as I was old enough, I was shipped off to private schools and military-type academies, in both the United States and Europe. I grew up in an extremely cold, impersonal, highly regimented environment. Which Melanie says accounts for my extremely cold, impersonal, highly regimented personality." He paused and turned to his once again _dumbstruck_ partner. "Melanie is my fiancée."

'So-o…Roy's suspicions were correct!' John silently realized. He sat there for a few more blocks, staring at his temporary partner like he was seeing him for the first time. "Congratulations, Craig! I wish you both the_ very_ _best_!"

"Thank you, John. Melanie **is** the_ very best_! She's highly intelligent, sensitive, wise beyond her years and…understanding. Melanie is the most _understanding_ person in the world! I have never met anyone like her before in my life!" Brice paused to compose himself a bit. "Anyway, when she heard that WE were going to be working together tonight, she made me _promise_ to 'try' to be more _understanding_ towards you…and to 'try' to get you to _understand _me, as well. You see, Melanie feels that anybody could get along with anyone, if they could just _understand_ one another. She feels that _understanding_ is the most important step in developing any relationship—even temporary partnerships."

"And what do _you_ feel, Craig?"

They rode along in silence for a few blocks.

"Embarrassed," Brice finally came back, "nervous...and terribly _out_ of character. Being _understanding_ isn't like _me_—at all. It's entirely new to me. In fact, until I met Melanie, I had never really tried to _understand_ anybody before—including_ myself_! But then, she helped me to understand _who_ I was…and _why_ I was. Then we got to understand one another…" his words trailed off. Craig composed himself again and continued. "Melanie makes me feel obligated to pass that understanding along. And, since we are working together, we might as well at least 'try' to get along. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Uh-uh…" John was still staring at his temporary partner as though he were seeing him for the very first time. "You'll have to excuse me. I'm in sort a' a state of shock, here. Yah see, **I** figured we'd be able to _put up_ with one another. Heck! I can put up with just about anybody—or anything—for half a shift! But the thought of _the two of us_…actually _getting along_? We-ell…_that's_ gonna take some getting used to!" he teased, and _the two of them_ exchanged grins.

"I already feel I'm beginning to understand you," Craig confessed.

"We've only been on two calls together. I must be a very uncomplicated person to figure out."

"Actually, you are much more complicated than I had ever imagined. For instance, I used to think that you were the most reckless, irresponsible, immature paramedic in the entire department."

John sat forward in his seat. "Oh yea-eah?"

Craig nodded. "And now, I'm beginning to understand that—although you may present a carefree attitude on the outside—inside, you are an extremely self-conscious, level-headed, mature professional."

Gage's slightly miffed look was replaced by one of profound confusion. "You _understand _all that, do you?"

Another nod. "I'm also beginning to understand that—the reason you may get more bumps and bruises than most—is, because you seem to be willing to take more calculated risks than most…because you are obviously more dedicated than most."

Gage gradually recovered from his 'understanding' partner's profound comments. "Now that you've brought it up…I-I used to think _you_ were the dullest, most arrogant, most conceited paramedic in the entire department."

"I was," Craig calmly confessed.

The two swapped glances and grins.

John sank back in his seat, again. "Yah know, I think I'm beginning to understand you, too…or, at least, to accept you," he clarified, wanting desperately to keep things completely honest between them.

Brice was pleased to hear both the comment and the honesty. "Melanie says that acceptance is the very basis of understanding."

"Yea-eah. Yah know, learning a little bit about your background really does help me to understand you better. And, working with you has allowed me to see three sides of your personality I've never seen before. You really **are** as talented as you've always claimed to be! You have a pretty _wild_ imagination! A-and a _great_ sense of humor! I cannot believe _you_ actually _have_ a sense of humor," he stopped suddenly, looking more lost and confused than ever. "Ma-an! I can't believe _we're_ sitting here having this conversation…"

"I know," Brice agreed. "I'm having a little difficulty _understanding_ it, myself."

The two partners turned to one another…and traded grins—again.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twelve**

Brice backed their rescue truck into Station 16's parking bay and killed its engine.

Gage reluctantly reached for the vehicle's dash-mounted radio. "LA, Squad 16. Available at quarters," he reported and quickly replaced the mic'.

"**10-4, Squad 16…**"

John yawned…and stretched…and groaned, as all that stretching caused his sore ribs to smart some. Midway out his door, the overly-fatigued fireman finally realized something. "Da-amn! The police have my wallet!"

"If _they_ can't be trusted with it," Craig wondered, "who can?"

"That's not the point. My badge and my I.D. are in my wallet." He suddenly recalled something else and made a mad grab for Garnett's assessment kit. Greg's shears, bandage scissors, Kelly forceps and splinter forceps were all missing. The holster was completely empty. The cops had even confiscated his penlight! "Da-amn!"

"Welcome back, boys!" fireman Curtis Hill greeted his returning shiftmates. "Did the police catch the guys that were layin' for yous?"

Brice nodded.

"They got my _wallet_, too!" Gage griped. "First, I have my badge—but no uniform. Now, I'll have my uniform—but no badge."

Hill shot the forlorn fireman a sympathetic glance, and then remembered something, himself. "Oh. Yeah. The Cap' wants to see you two in his office—_right away_."

"Tell 'im I'll be there in a couple a' minutes," Gage requested. "I wanna change before we get another ru—"

"—He, uh, sort a' gave me the impression that he wanted to see you _before_ you change," Hill hinted.

John heaved a heavy sigh of disappointment and reluctantly followed his partner over to Mason's office.

* * *

The two men found the Captain on the phone.

Craig tapped on the open door's frame and called out, "You wanted to see us, Sir?"

Mason nodded and motioned for them to enter. "Hang on, Captain. They just walked through the door." He placed a hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "I've got some police Captain on the line _demanding_ to know why _his_ department was never informed of _our _department's 'undercover firemen' operation."

The two paramedics exchanged looks of utter astonishment…and then stood there, gritting their teeth and pursing their lips—rather tightly.

"I told him I didn't know what 'operation' he was referring to," the Captain continued. "The guy claims his men reported that there was an undercover fireman working out of Station 16. I assured the Captain that his men _must_ be mistaken, because we _don't have_ any 'undercover firemen' working out of Station 16. **Do** **we**!" he ordered more than asked.

"Uh-uh…No. No-o. Of course not, Cap!" John _obediently_ replied.

"Ga-age, you have no idea how _relieved_ I am to hear you say that." The Captain uncovered the mouthpiece and was about to converse with the cop…when the claxons sounded.

"**Station 16…Engine 10…Structure fire…**"

Mason hung up on his police counterpart, without saying goodbye.

All three firemen hurried from the office.

* * *

The paramedics piled back into their truck.

Brice took their copy of the call slip from the Captain and passed it to his partner.

Gage glanced at his watch, recorded the time, and then clipped the slip to the dashboard. "I hope _you_ know where 1424 East Ames is," he stated, sounding every bit as weary as he looked, "because **I** have _no idea _how to get there…"

Craig gave his tired partner a sympathetic glance, and a nod. He pulled the Squad out of the parking bay and immediately made a right.

Engine 16 followed the smaller vehicle into the darkened street in front of the Station.

Then both fire trucks headed off into the night—their lights flashing and their sirens wailing.

* * *

Station 16 arrived at the incident scene in under six minutes.

1424 East Ames turned out to be a four-story brick office building.

The fire had already vented itself and smoke was billowing from several of the structure's popped first floor windows.

An annoying _'clanging/whining'_ racket filled the air, as the building's fire alarms—and every smoke alarm in the place—wailed their distinctive warnings that _something_ was _burning_.

The firemen bailed out of their respective trucks and began donning their self-contained breathing apparatus.

* * *

Captain Mason pulled an HT from his coat pocket and thumbed its call button. "LA, Engine 16. We have smoke visible at this address. Respond a third alarm…"

"**10-4, Engine 16…**"

Mason pocketed the radio and started issuing orders to his crew.

* * *

Gage was standing in front of the compartment containing his air-pack, impatiently waiting for Brice to unlock the door. "C'mon, will yah!"

"It's not locked!" Craig called back, from the opposite side of the truck.

John's right eyebrow arched. He grabbed the handle latch and pulled. The compartment door swung open. "I don't mind you forgetting to lock them, as long you don't forget to _tell me_ you forgot to lock them."

Brice came trotting around the back of the Squad, with his air-pack already in place. "I didn't forget to lock them," he corrected. "I decided to unlock them, and merely neglected to mention it to you."

Gage finished donning his SCBA. "Bu-ut…what about Departmental Regulations?"

Craig gave his companion's left shoulder a couple of comforting pats. "I wouldn't worry too much about them, if I were you. After all, they don't actually come right out and 'say' _compartments_, now, do they."

The corners of John's mouth turned up ever so slightly. "No-o. No. I guess they don't," he was forced to admit.

Craig gave his partner's shoulder a final pat and then the two men started trotting over to Engine 16, to receive _their_ orders.

* * *

"Do me a favor, huh?" John requested, along the way. "Next time you see Melanie, I want you to give her a BIG kiss for me. Okay?" He saw that his partner wasn't quite sure what to make of his odd request and added, "Well, you wouldn't want **me** to give it to her. Would you?"

Melanie's fiancé was forced to grin.

* * *

"You two!" Mason shouted, as his paramedic team came trotting up, "Go make sure everyone's left the office party! And see what you can do about those damn alarms!" he added with a wince.

The paramedics nodded their compliance to their Captain's orders. Then they donned their facemasks and followed several charged hose lines into the burning building.

* * *

The two men found and reset the main "Fire Alarm" box—mercifully putting an end to the infernal _'clanging'_. The smoke alarms' ear-piercing _'whine_s' would have to be silenced one-by-one, as they swept through the building.

* * *

Speaking of sweeping through the building...

The firemen stepped into an open elevator on the burning structure's smoky first floor.

Gage inserted a master key, set the Fire Service switch to "ON", and then pressed **4**.

Brice held the "DOOR CLOSE" button down until the elevator's doors slid completely shut.

They started up.

"How do you wanna handle this?" John inquired of his fellow sweeper.

"We'll be able to cover more ground, more quickly, if we split up," his partner replied. "I generally prefer to work alone. I find that I can search faster—and more efficiently—when there is no one along to slow me up."

Gage gazed disbelievingly out at Brice through his facemask. "Whatever gave me the impression that _you_ were _conceited_?" he teased and then immediately tacked on, "I'll race yah down!"

"Whatever gave me the impression that _you_ were _immature_?" Brice teased right back. "No contest! I'll take odds. You take evens?"

"Fine! And the last one down is a rotten egg!"

Craig transferred their HT from his coat pocket to his partner's. "I'll call you from the Squad…to check on your progress."

John snickered.

The elevator stopped.

Brice pressed the "DOOR OPEN" button until its doors slid fully open.

Gage set the Fire Service switch back to "OFF" and returned the master key to Garnett's coat pocket.

The two men stepped out onto the relatively smoke-free top floor.

Craig watched his partner go _skipping_ off down the hall. He grinned and headed for the stairwell to the third floor—at a rather _high_ rate of speed.

Gage may have won the _round_.

But Brice intended to win the _race_.

* * *

John found most of the doors on the building's fourth floor locked. Locked doors meant that he could sweep the floor a whole lot faster. He'd found a bucket in one of the utility closets he'd checked, and he stood on _it_ to disengage the blaring smoke alarms' batteries. Finally, the completely empty fourth floor was completely quiet. The sweeper snatched his step-bucket back up and bolted for the stairs.

* * *

As Gage searched the second floor, he again found most of the business offices to be_ locked_.

He grabbed another knob on yet another door and tried it. Much to his dismay, it turned and the portal clicked open to reveal a large, dark office. The _racing_ fireman frowned and reluctantly stepped into the room—to sweep it. He spotted a strip of light, coming from under the door to another, inner office and his frown deepened.

John shone his light over the outer office—er, the _empty_ outer office. Then he stepped up to the inner office's door and banged on it with the butt of his flashlight. "Fire Department!" he called out, over the blaring of the smoke alarms that were sounding out in the hall. "Anybody in there?"

No one answered.

So he tried the knob. It turned and the portal clicked open. The fireman stepped inside—to search the inner room. Suddenly, he stiffened.

A man in a beige business suit was bent over an office desk, rifling through an enormous stack of papers.

'Humph,' the paramedic mused. 'I guess everyone _hasn't_ left the office party. And I thought firemen were the only ones who had to work tonight.' "Sir? SI-IR?" he shouted louder, when the busy fellow failed to respond. "That noise you hear is the building's smoke alarms! There is a **_fi-ire_** in the building, and _you_ are gonna hafta _leave_!" Gage exhaled an annoyed gasp, as the guy just continued to completely ignore him. "Mister! Are you DEAF?" The fireman suddenly realized something and his anger left him. "You probably _a-are_…" John set his light and chalk down on the floor, freeing his hands to 'sign'.

The guy behind the desk finally found what he'd been searching for and started heading for the door. He caught his first glimpse of the fireman—and his face filled with alarm.

Gage straightened up and started to sign 'fire'.

The guy in the business suit panicked and pulled a handgun from his coat pocket.

'Ah-ah shit!' the fireman thought, as the weapon was pulled and then pointed in his direction. 'I must a' walked in on a burglary or somethin'…' His blood ran cold. His shaking hands stopped signing and started raising—in surrender. The barrel of the gun was now aimed directly at his head. 'That can't be good.' That could _never_ be good! "**No-o! _Plea-ease?_ Don**—"

'—**_BLA-AM!_**'

John saw the muzzle flash and heard a _deafeningly_ LOUD explosion. He tried to duck, but something struck his left temple. There was another explosion—of brilliant light—in his brain, and then…nothing. The bullet's impact threw Gage back against the door. His limp body sagged slowly to the floor and then slumped sideways. The panicked paramedic's pleas for his life...had fallen on deaf ears.

The gunman stood over the fireman's motionless body, looking more alarmed than ever.

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Thirteen**

Carl Iverson was faced with a bit of a quandary. He needed to ditch a body. But, in order to do that, he would have to get out of a burning building—crawling with firemen—unseen. He stared down at the fireman lying lifeless at his feet for a few moments…and then smiled. Ye-es! He would simply 'blend in', and thus _blend out_!

It was an interesting thing about a uniform. The fact that a man _wasn't_ wearing one didn't necessarily mean he _wasn't_ a fireman…and the fact that he _was_ wearing one didn't necessarily mean that he _was_ one, either.

* * *

Brice jogged out of the burning building…down the dark sidewalk…and up to their squad. He saw that Gage was nowheres near the vehicle and smiled, an incredibly _smug_ smile—of victory! He jerked his driver's door open and leaned into the truck, to snatch up its dash-mounted radio's mic'. "Squad 16 to HT 16…" he gloated—er, called, a bit breathlessly.

No response.

Craig's triumphant smile slowly began to fade. "Squad 16 to HT 16. Ga-age? Do you copy?"

Still no response.

The fireman frowned outright. He returned the radio's mic' to its clip and went running up to his Captain.

* * *

"Excuse me, Sir, but have you seen Gage lately?"

Mason turned away from the Battalion Chief he'd been talking to, and gave Brice an annoyed glare. "He's _supposed_ to be _with you_!" He noticed that the paramedic appeared genuinely concerned and suddenly felt a bit concerned himself. "Why-y?"

"I can't seem to contact him."

"Maybe his HT's batteries are dead?"

"I double-checked them when I came on duty."

The Captain's concern level upped a notch or two. Brice was nothing, if not thorough. "Give 'im a few more minutes. Maybe Gage is just a _slow_ sweeper?"

Brice gazed glumly up at the multi-storied building. "He also happens to be a rotten egg."

The Captain and the Chief exchanged amused glances and then returned to their conversation.

* * *

Iverson didn't make it very far carrying a hundred and sixty pounds of dead weight across his left shoulder—and another forty or so pounds of air tank and harness on his aching back. The out of breath—and out of condition—criminal paused in the building's stairwell, to lighten his load.

* * *

Brice made several more unsuccessful attempts to reach his partner via the radio. Then he replaced his SCBA's air bottle and went running back up to his Captain, who was currently speaking to one of his engine crew.

* * *

"Sir? Request permission to search Gage's half of the building."

Mason nodded his consent. "Take Hill, here, with you!"

Craig wasn't exactly thrilled with his Captain's order, but he didn't protest it.

The two men replaced their facemasks and then began heading for the building's front entrance.

* * *

Iverson exited the back of the building—undetected—and then headed off down the dark, dank alley, in the direction of his car.

* * *

To avoid detection, Iverson had left his stolen vehicle parked a few blocks away. The now gasping from exertion—er, over-exertion man cursed his decision to do so and decided to ditch the body right there, in the alley. He flicked the fireman's flashlight on and started searching for an adequate disposal site.

Somebody had recently purchased a clothes dryer. He propped the dead guy up against a brick wall and covered him with the appliance's crushed cardboard carton. The criminal smiled again. It was both a holiday—and a weekend. It would undoubtedly be _days_ before the body would be discovered. The no longer weighed down felon heaved an audible sigh of relief, and then quickly fled the scene.

* * *

Brice and Hill were following a trail of chalk X's down the building's second-floor hallway.

They came upon a bucket, and a door _without_ an X.

Brice tried the knob.

The office was locked.

Craig turned to his companion. "I'll get the door. You get the alarms."

Hill nodded and reached for the empty bucket.

Brice turned back to the X-less door. "Fire Department!" he shouted, over the annoying whining of the smoke alarm above their heads. "Anybody in there?"

No one answered.

Craig stepped back, and was about to kick the door in, when he happened to glance down at the floor.

There was a trail of little crimson splotches leading up to, or away from, the door.

The fireman's already elevated heart rate increased. He gave the office's locked door a **very** _forceful_ kick.

Wood splintered and the portal went flying open.

"Never mind the alarms," Brice told his fellow fireman. "Just follow me." That said, he flicked his flashlight on and disappeared into the darkened office.

Hill stepped down from the bucket and obediently followed the paramedic into the room.

* * *

Curtis saw that Craig was running the beam of his light along the floor. "What are we doing?"

"We are following a trail of blood," the paramedic replied, rather matter-of-factly.

Hill swallowed hard. "I had to ask."

Brice followed the blood trail up to another closed door, to an inner office. He gripped the knob, but hesitated to try it. "Fire Department!" he called out and finally turned the knob. The door clicked open.

Nothing happened.

So Craig pushed the portal all the way open and shone his light into the smaller, darkened room.

The first thing its beam revealed, was that the crimson trail stopped—er, rather started at a bright red pool on the office's tiled floor, near the doorway.

"Sweep the room," Brice suggested, as he stooped to examine the crimson trail's source. He ran a finger through the little red pool. It smeared. The fireman's knotted stomach turned.

"Nothing!" Curtis announced, upon the completion of his search. "Or, should I say, no one."

"Someone was here just recently," Craig solemnly announced. "And, whoever it was…is hurt…" his words trailed off. Suddenly, he spotted a piece of unbroken white chalk lying on the floor. He turned and made a mad dash out the door.

* * *

Hill caught up to Brice in the hallway and the two men headed for the far stairwell, tracking the trail of little crimson splotches.

* * *

John Gage's traumatized brain gradually began to process information again. That information brought back awareness, of both himself and his surroundings.

He seemed to be sitting on—and up against—an extremely cold, damp surface…in total darkness…with a _debilitating_ headache. He grimaced and groaned aloud. His head hurt soooo unbelievably ba-ad. It felt like it was being crushed in a vice.

Something warm was draining down the back of his throat. The sensation made him wanna gag. He grimaced again and attempted to swallow. The distinctive taste of blood caused him to gag even more, and the fireman suddenly found himself engulfed in a tidal wave of nausea. He leaned forward and to one side, and proceeded to empty his churning stomach of three slices of pizza, two large glasses of milk…and a cup of coffee.

That little upchuck episode left him trembling, from both pain and exertion. On top of the gripping agony of his vice-like headache, the sudden movement had produced an intense, searing pain—like he'd been eating ice cream too fast, or something.

To top off his miseries, the smell of fresh vomit was threatening to unsettle his still tumultuous tummy again. He tried to move away from the offensive odor, but something was blocking his way—a box of some kind. He shoved the cardboard aside and attempted, once again, to move away from the sickening smell.

He spotted a dim, blurry patch of light and started crawling towards it on his knees and forearms. He didn't have the strength to make it up onto his hands.

Somehow, the fireman mustered the where-with-all to make it a few yards toward that fuzzy, dim light, before collapsing, face first, onto the cold, dank pavement.

**TBC **

**Author's note: **

The debilitating, vice-like headache John is currently experiencing is an orthostatic headache. An orthostatic headache is caused by cerebrospinal fluid hypovolemia. In other words, his cranium is leaking—and thus losing—cerebrospinal fluid.

This loss of 'cushioning' 'intercranial pressure balancing' cerebrospinal fluid causes the brain to descend when the person is sitting or standing erect. This 'brain drop' puts traction on the brain's pain-sensitive anchoring structures…which results in an _unbelievably_ PAINFUL orthostatic headache.


	14. Chapter 14

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Fourteen**

A patrol car was cruising down McKlellan Avenue, one of the streets the alley John Gage had been dumped in, entered into.

"Can't," its passenger informed its driver. "Maggie's waiting up for me." Out of habit, the patrol officer happened to glance down the alley as they drove past. He could have sworn he'd seen something white moving—and that something white bore the outline of a body.

"C'mon! _One_ drink? She's not holding her brea—"

"—Hold it, Mike!"

Mike obligingly slowed the car and braked to a stop. He then turned to his partner, for an explanation.

"Back up. I think I may have seen something in that alley."

"Forget it, Nick! We're off at midnight. Remember?"

"It ain't midnight _yet_."

"It will be by the time we get back to the precinct. Besides, I thought you said Maggie is waiting up for you?"

"She's not holding her breath. C'mon! Back up! I wanna check it out."

Mike emitted an exasperated gasp and reluctantly shifted their squad car into reverse. He backed down the street and stopped in front of _the_ alley.

Nick grabbed the handle on his spotlight, flicked it on and shone it along the dirty, damp pavement. His hand froze, as the beam of his light illuminated something white—a motionless, white-shirted body.

Mike threw the car into PARK and killed its engine.

The police officers grabbed their nightsticks and piled out.

* * *

The moaning paramedic heard the muffled sound of car doors slamming…and footsteps approaching. He lay there, in the cold dark alley, feeling almost too scared to breathe.

"Police!" came a shouted voice. "What are you doing in here, Mister?"

'No,' John thought to himself. 'No-o. That's not right…' He felt someone frisking him.

"He's clean. Not even an I.D."

Gage groaned as he was rolled over onto his back. He groaned again, as a bright light was shone in his eyes.

The officers gazed down at the white-shirted body's blood-streaked face.

"Sheesh!" Nick exclaimed. "This guy's a mess! How did you get that cut on your head?"

"He probably had a little too much to drink…stumbled…and fell," Mike surmised, when the guy on the ground failed to reply.

"Na-ah. I don't think so. I don't smell any booze. He's got a bloody nose, too. What's your name?"

Again, the guy on the ground didn't answer.

"If he ain't drunk, then he must be stoned. He's really out of it!" Mike gave the stoned guy a disgusted sneer. Then he grabbed one of his arms and tried pulling him to his feet. "C'mon, buddy! We'll take you someplace nice and warm, where you can sleep it off…"

"No-o!" the paramedic pleaded, and struggled desperately to pull his arm free. "No-o…you got…you got…the…**wro-ong**…gu-uy!"

Mike managed an amused gasp. He stuck his nightstick in its holster. Then he stooped down, grabbed 'the wrong guy' by his wrist and rolled his filthy white shirtsleeve up. The veins in the guy's arm bore needle marks—from his wrist clear up to his elbow. "We got the **right** guy, all right! Buddy, you been makin' more tracks than a centipede wearin' golfer's shoes!" He glanced up at his partner, looking more disgusted than ever. "Gawd, I hate hypes! I hate hypes even _more_ than I hate drunk drivers! And I HATE drunk drivers! In fact, the only thing I hate _worse_ than a hype, is a rapist!"

Nick completely ignored his partner's comments. He just stood there, staring sadly down at the moaning young man at their feet. "Look, maybe we should take him in and have that cut taken care of."

"They kin put a Band-Aid on it, over at the shelter."

"I really think we should take him to an ER and have it looked at."

"Why-y? Why waste our time on a hype? You know, as well as I do, that he's probably gonna be right back out here tomorrow night!"

The guy in the white shirt let out a particularly pitiful moan and started choking.

Nick dropped to one knee and quickly turned the choking fellow's head to one side. He grimaced, as a stream of blood began trickling from a corner of the moaning man's mouth. "We're taking him in!" he adamantly stated. "If he's gonna die in an alley, he's gonna have to do it on someone else's shift!"

Mike looked positively miserable, but then brightened. "There's a paramedic squad parked at that fire, over on Ames! Let's call it in and have _them_ take care of him!"

Nick nodded his approval of his partner's proposed plan and started heading for their car radio.

* * *

Fire Department operations over at 1424 East Ames had moved into the salvage and overhaul phase.

Brice and Hill were standing in front of Squad 16, talking with Captain Mason and a Battalion Chief.

"We found a pool of blood on the floor, where he left his chalk," Brice informed his superiors. "Hill and I followed a blood trail to the stairwell, where we found his SCBA. We continued to follow the trail down the stairs, but then lost it out in the alley—" He stopped to answer the Squad's '_bleep_' ing radio.

"**Squad 16…What is your status?…**"

"LA, Squad 16 is Code 8 at the scene," the paramedic reported, sounding annoyed by the disruption.

"**10-4, Squad 16…**"

Craig replaced the mic' and slammed the truck's door. Then he aimed a deeply troubled gaze at his Captain. "Sir, Gage is a responsible firefighter. He would _never_ leave an incident scene without letting _someone_ know _why_ he was leaving and _where_ he was going. I really think that we should look for him! He may be seriously injured!"

"Agreed!" Captain Mason turned to Chief DeWitt for permission to conduct a search.

The Battalion Chief remained completely baffled. "I don't know what to make of _any_ of this, Jimmy. But, if you want to take your crew and go look for him, I certainly have no objections."

* * *

Just two blocks away, a frowning police officer stood beside a patrol car's open door. The unhappy cop pressed the call button on their radio's mic'. "Roger that, Central. Then, show Unit 11 on a follow up to—standby…" He turned back to the alley. "Mike! Are we closer to St. Andrews? Or Rampart General?"

"General! Why?"

"The paramedics aren't available! We end up taking him in, after all!" Nick heard his partner curse and was forced to smile. "—Rampart General, with our John Doe 218. Unit 11 out."

"**Roger, Unit 11…**"

Nick replaced the radio and hurried off to give his partner a hand.

* * *

John's head was now hurting him more than he could bear. He tried to reach for his throbbing forehead, but somebody grabbed both of his wrists and began hauling him up onto his feet. He glanced wildly about. Everything was all dark and blurry. He tried to concentrate, but his mind seemed to be just as clouded as his vision. Memories of dark alleys and policemen with drawn guns and offices and agonizing pain flitted through his on-fire brain.

"On your feet!" Mike ordered gruffly, as the guy in the white shirt refused to stand.

Not only did the 218 refuse to stand, he kept trying to pull his wrists free.

Mike braced himself and then jerked the junkie up off the pavement.

Nick grabbed an arm and helped his partner with their now completely unruly John Doe.

"Let me go!" John begged. "Let me go-o!" he repeated, and finally succeeded in pulling an arm free. He tried to shove whoever it was that was keeping him upright away. He just wanted to lie back down. His head didn't feel like it was going to explode as much when he was lying down.

"Keep it up," Mike breathlessly warned, as they struggled with their burden down the alley, "and you're gonna be under arrest for resisting an officer!"

Gage thrashed violently between his two custodians. He managed to get another arm free of their grasp and took a swing at the person who was clutching his right arm so painfully hard.

Mike's already narrowed eyes narrowed even further, into angry slits. "Okay, buddy! _That_ does it!" He half-dragged and half-carried the hype up to their car's front grill and then forced him—face first—down onto the hood. "You are under arrest for resisting an officer!" He reached back and pulled out his cuffs. "You have the right to remain silent!" He jerked the junkie's arms behind his back and slapped the cuffs on their unruly John Doe's needle-scarred wrists. "Anything you say—" he gave up, as his squirming prisoner exercised his right to remain silent by suddenly going completely limp.

"Better make it Code R!" Nick suggested, as their unconscious prisoner was laid across their patrol car's back seat.

His partner nodded.

Nick heard the guy choking again and climbed in back, to keep his airway cleared.

Blood was trickling from the young man's mouth again and there was some kind of yellowish fluid draining from his left ear.

Nick wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but he knew it couldn't be a _good_ sign.

Mike slid back in behind the wheel and gave his partner an annoyed glare in the rear view mirror. "Do me a favor, will yah. Don't look down anymore dark alleys!"

* * *

Brice, and the rest of 16's B-shift came straggling back up to their trucks, following an unsuccessful 'search and rescue' mission.

Just as Craig reached the Squad, its radio began '_bleep_' ing.

"**Squad 16…Report to Rampart General Hospital at your earliest possible convenience…**"

Upon hearing the request, the paramedic's gloomy countenance instantly brightened. He turned to shoot his Captain a hopeful glance.

Mason looked equally hopeful, and nodded.

Brice latched onto the dash-mounted radio's mic' and thumbed its call button. "10-4, LA. Squad 16 en route to Rampart General. ETA ten minutes."

**TBC**


	15. Chapter 15

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Fifteen**

Cheryl Norquist pulled the tips of her stethoscope from her ears. "Vitals remain stable," she informed the two physicians who were standing across the treatment table from her.

The doctors glanced up from the lab report they'd been studying and nodded their acknowledgment of the nurse's vital signs update.

"His blood checks out," Brackett determined. "Nothing abnorm—"

"—Doctor Brackett," Rita Moore suddenly interrupted, poking her head inside the room, "Craig Brice is here…"

"Thanks!" Kel told her. "Might as well go ahead and prep him," he suggested and started heading for the door. "Kurtz _must_ be here by no-ow."

Joe addressed the nurse in the doorway. "Miss Moore, see if you can find the anesthesiologist."

"Right away, Doctor!" Rita assured him and followed Brackett back into the hall.

* * *

Kel spotted Craig Brice standing—alone—in front of the Nurses' Station, and hurried up to him. "Thanks for coming, Craig. Where's your _partner_?"

The paramedic appeared to be both crushed and confused by his question. "I thought **you** knew! I was hoping _that_ was the reason I was told to report here. I _lost_ my partner at a structure fire, over on the 1400 block of East Ames. Actually, it may be more accurate to say that he _walked away_."

"If your partner was _John Ga-age_, it would be more accurate to say that he _crawled away_," Kel corrected.

Craig's look of confusion quadrupled.

* * *

Speaking of John Ga-age…

Cheryl stared down at the cut on the unconscious paramedic's left temple and suddenly realized something. "He would really have to strike his head with _some_ force to cause a depressed skull fracture like this, wouldn't he…"

Joe was speaking to the anesthesiologist about the condition of his surprise patient's lungs. He paused to shoot the inquisitive nurse a quick glance. "Yes. He certainly would."

"Dr. Early," the woman quickly continued, "if John were a _police_man, instead of a _fire_man, what would you say this was?" She pointed to the crease in their patient's left temple.

Early stared down at the wound for a few moments, and then glanced at the nurse again, looking rather dubious. "Why would _anyone_ ever want to _shoot_ **him**?"

"Why does anybody ever want to shoot anybody?" the nurse asked right back. "I don't know. All I do know is, that this crease has all the characteristics of a deflected _bullet_ wound."

"Yes. It does," the physician was forced to concede. However, he remained highly skeptical. "_If_ it _was_ a bullet, _what_ deflected it?"

"His facemask!" Brackett replied, as he and Brice came into the room.

"How is he?" Craig anxiously inquired, stepping up to his 'newly found' partner's side.

"He's stable," Cheryl assured him.

The visibly shaken _vertical_ fireman exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

Joe was still staring at his fellow physician in shock and disbelief. "Johnny's been _shot_?"

Kel nodded. "Craig and I just examined his facemask. There is a crease in the metal rim that holds the mask's face shield in place. The crease is on the _left_ side—the same side as _his_." The doctor's gaze settled upon the _horizontal_ fireman's motionless body. "I just notified the authorities about our," he hesitated, "_gunshot _victim…"

Early overcame his astonishment and directed an angry glare at the critically wounded paramedic's partner—er, temporary partner. "What the _hell_ happened?"

"We were at a structure fire over on East Ames," Brice replied, keeping his eyes focused on his fellow firefighter's impassive face. "The Captain ordered the two of us to make a routine sweep of the building. We split up—each of us taking half. John never finished his half of the search…" his words trailed off. "If John had _odds_…and I had _evens_…**I** would be lying on that table right now…" he allowed his soft-spoken words to trail off again.

Joe remained completely confused. "Well, _who_ shot him? And _how_ did he end up in an alley—_blocks_ away? I seriously doubt _he_ could've made it that far in his—" he stopped speaking, as two orderlies suddenly entered the exam room, guiding a gurney.

"—They're ready for him in the OR," one of them announced, as they slid the stretcher up alongside of the treatment table.

The surgical patient was quickly transferred to it. All attached wires and tubes were disconnected from the ER's wall sockets and electronic monitoring devices, and the gurney was guided back out of the room.

"I'd…better call Captain Mason," Craig realized aloud and followed the anesthesiologist out the door.

Speaking of calling people…

Cheryl exited the exam room and headed for the phone on the counter at her Nurses' Station.

* * *

Roy DeSoto was seated on the sofa in his candlelit living room. His wife, Joanne, was wrapped in his arms, and the two of them were murmuring softly, in romantic undertones. Two half-full champagne glasses, and a half-empty bottle of bubbly, sat out on the couple's coffee table.

The two lovebirds exchanged amused glances, as their half-asleep four-year-old came stumbling up to them.

"Is it the new year, yet?" the boy groggily inquired.

Roy exchanged another amused glance with his spouse and then turned back to his son, trying his level best to look and sound stern. "Yes. It's been 1978 for almost half an hour, already. What are you doing up again, Chris? You're supposed to be sleeping, so you'll be able to get up in time for the parade tomorrow. Remember?"

The child's face lit up and he nodded. The boy wiped the sleep from his eyes and then did an about-face. "I just wanted to know if it was the new year, yet…" he explained, and went stumbling off, in the direction of his vacated bed.

Roy started getting stiffly to his feet. "I'd better go tuck him back in—again."

Suddenly, the phone rang.

The couple swapped a pair of anxious glances.

"Who would be calling here—at _this_ hour?" his wife wondered aloud.

"It's probably your mother," Roy teased, "calling to wish me a Happy New Year."

Joanne chuckled delightedly, at her husband's absurd notion.

Roy answered the phone with a big, silly grin. "Happy New Year, Mom!" he exclaimed into the receiver.

His already chuckling wife laughed outright. Joanne sobered, as her husband's amused expression suddenly grew solemn.

"Uh-uh, no-o. No, Cheryl. No problem. Joanne and I are still up…" Roy's face blanched and he staggered back a step.

Joanne shot up off the sofa and moved to his side.

"Uhhh…no…yeah…sure…I'll be right there!" Roy replaced the phone in slow motion.

"Honey? What's wrong? What happened?"

"That was the hospital," her husband replied, as though he were in a trance. "Johnny's been seriously injured. He's in surgery, right no-ow…"

Joanne threw her arms around him. "Oh-oh no-o! How? What happened?"

"Cheryl didn't say. She said she'd explain everything when I got there…" Roy suddenly realized something and leaned back to lock eyes with his wife. "I said I'd be right there. I didn't even think to **ask** if that would be _okay_ with you-ou…"

The woman's arms encircled her husband's waist. She drew him close again and rested her head upon his tightened chest. "_Of course_ it's okay! Johnny's _fa-mi-ly_!"

"How did I ever find such an understanding wife?" Roy inquired in a whisper, and stood there, rocking her in his arms.

Joanne pulled back and planted a light kiss on his cheek. "Get your shoes on. I'll find you a jacket," she volunteered, and started heading for the hall closet.

* * *

In a three-room third floor apartment, several miles from Rampart General Hospital, a man stood in front of a gas range.

Carl Iverson held the files, which he'd stolen from that pile of paperwork on that office desk, over a lit burner. He smiled as he watched the flames consume the documents. He stared down at the remaining mound of black ash, looking extremely pleased and feeling tremendously relieved.

Then he crossed over to his kitchen table and began cramming a fireman's bloody turnout coat and helmet into a large, black plastic trash bag.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Sixteen**

"Hello?" Martha Jenner listened, as one of her husband's friends from the LACFD requested to speak with '_the_ Chief Engineer'. "Of course, Chief Brevik. Hang on. I'll get him for you." She set the phone down and started weaving her way through the clusters of laughing, chatting guests who were 'ringing' the New Year in, in her living room.

* * *

Martha found her husband swapping 'war stories' with some of his old Department buddies. "Bill, Chief Brevik is on the phone. He claims it's important…"

Jenner exchanged mystified glances with his cronies. "What on earth could _he_ possibly want at _this_ hour?" he wondered aloud and stepped into the hall, to pick up the extension. "Jenner here. What's up, Bobby?" His eyes widened with shock and his jaw dropped. "You _can't_ be serious!" he insisted. His hopeful reply, however, proved to be wrong. _The_ Chief winced and bowed his head. "When did it happen?…Don't they have _any_ leads?…Well, don't **you** have any of the _details_?…_What_ was the name?" Jenner winced again. "Yes. I know him…All right, Bob…Just find out what you can…Right. And have Dalbert prepare some kind of press release…I don't care. Just keep it brief…Right. Look, I'd appreciate it if you would personally keep me posted on this…Don't worry about the time. I won't be getting much sleep tonight, anyway…Thanks, Bobby," he signed off and slowly returned the phone to its cradle.

"Bi-ill?" Martha rested a hand on her husband's arm. "What was all _that_ about?"

Jenner looked up.

His guests were all staring at him, anxiously awaiting his answer.

"A Los Angeles County firefighter was shot tonight," Jenner regrettably replied.

The women gasped.

The men demanded more details, like 'How did it happen?' and 'When did it happen?' and 'How is he?' and 'Who is he?'

"No one knows—exactly. He was brought to the hospital about a half-hour ago. He's still in surgery. I'm sorry, but his name is being withheld…pending notification of relatives." Jenner exhaled a weary sigh and then hung his head—once more.

The New Year was certainly getting off to a _da-amn_ **bad** start.

* * *

Roy DeSoto entered Rampart General's Emergency Receiving. He spotted Cheryl Norquist standing behind the Nurses' Station counter, at the end of the busy hallway, and stepped quickly up to her. "How _is_ he?"

The nurse glanced up from a medical chart and seemed stunned to see John's partner standing there. "He's still in surgery. How did you get here so quickly?"

"I'm married to a **very** _understanding_ woman and I drive a **very** _fast_ sports car. _What_ 'happened' to him? I mean, _what_, exactly, are they 'operating' _o-on_?"

Cheryl stepped around the counter and took him by the elbow. "Let's get some coffee," she suggested.

Roy allowed himself to be escorted down the crowded corridor and into the doctor's lounge.

* * *

DeSoto even permitted the woman to seat him at a table. But, when she started heading for the coffeemaker, the paramedic protested. "If it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon _pass_ on the coffee."

The nurse returned to the table empty-handed, choosing to _pass_ on the coffee, herself. "I assume you know he was working at 16's, with Craig Brice, tonight…"

Roy nodded.

"Well, they were at a structure fire over on the 1400 block of East Ames. Captain Mason ordered John and Craig to make a routine sweep of the four-story building. They split up, each taking two floors. John never finished his half of the search.

When he didn't show up, Craig, and another firefighter, went looking for him. They found his chalk…and traces of blood…in the doorway of an inner office on the second floor. They followed the blood trail and discovered his SCBA in the stairwell.

Captain Mason and his crew conducted a thorough search of the entire area, but they couldn't locate him.

Two patrol officers had already found John, lying facedown in an alley, a few blocks from the fire scene. He had a small cut on his forehead and he was bleeding from his nose and mouth. They brought him in to the ER, as a John Doe 218—"

"—Couldn't they _see_ he was a fireman?"

"John wasn't wearing his uniform, or carrying any identification on him, when he was found."

The already confused paramedic now appeared to be completely perplexed.

"You're not gonna believe this," Cheryl confidently predicted, "bu-ut…someone _shot_ him and stole his coat and helmet."

The woman was right.

Roy's confused look was quickly transformed into one of utter disbelief—closely followed by shock.

The nurse nodded. "He was _shot_." Seeing that John's partner was still too stunned to speak, she reluctantly continued. "The bullet struck his left temple, where it was deflected by the metal rim of his air mask's face shield."

"**Why-y?**" Roy angrily demanded, finally finding his voice. "_Why_ would _anybody_ **ever **wanna _shoot_ **Johnny**?"

Cheryl shared his anger. "I can't even _begin_ to imagine! But Craig has come up with kind of a theory. He figures that John must've interrupted a _burglary in progress_, or something."

"Nobody saw _anything_ suspicious?"

"They used John's coat and helmet to sneak out of the building. Then they dumped him in an alley and just left him there to die! And he would have been dead, too, if those two police officers hadn't found him and brought him in when they did. He was _awfully_ shocky. Dr. Early said, another ten minutes and—" the nurse stopped in mid-sentence and immediately changed directions. "Anyways, we got him in and got him stabilized, and he was _still_ stable when they took him into the O.R."

Roy's completely puzzled look returned. "What are they operating _on_? I thought you said the bullet was _deflected_…"

Cheryl studied her folded hands. "The bullet's impact caused blunt force trauma to his brain. He suffered a moderate concussion…along with a depressed skull fracture. The resulting bone fragments penetrated the Dura Mater—the outer membrane that surrounds and protects the brain—and lacerated blood vessels in the underlying periosteal and meningeal layers. Dr. Kurtz is performing surgery to remove bone fragments and blood clots…and to try to stop any further brain hemorrhaging. I'm sure he also plans to repair the fracture site."

Roy absorbed all that, as best he could, and then angrily repeated, "_Why_ would _anybody_ **ever **wanna _shoot_ **Johnny**?"

* * *

When DeSoto reached the surgical ward, he found Brice pacing up and down the corridor outside of the O.R. his partner was currently occupying.

Craig spotted Roy and stopped, right in mid-pace. "Squad 16 was taken out of service," he said, in an attempt to explain his presence. "They…couldn't find anyone to replace John."

"That's because he's irreplaceable," DeSoto half-teased.

Brice locked gazes with Gage's best friend. "I am so-o sorry, Roy!"

"What have _you_ got to be sorry for? _You_ didn't pull the trigger."

"No. But it was _my_ idea for the two of us to split u—"

"—Johnny and I split up _all the time_—on _routine_ sweeps," Roy reassured him. "It's a lot more efficient—and _faster_—way to search a large area." A slight smile suddenly played upon his pursed lips. "Did he wanna _race_ you down?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Craig's mouth, as well. He replied with a single nod.

Roy's slight smile graduated into a grin. The beat on his feet fireman spied a bench. "What d'yah say we both _sit_ down, before we _fall_ down," he wearily suggested. "We may be here…awhile." He hadn't even _begun_ to recover from his exhausting shift, and he knew Craig was coming off of pulling a double.

The two tired paramedics collapsed onto the bench…and then patiently—er, impatiently, waited.

* * *

Four lo-o-ong hours later, the O.R.'s doors finally flew open.

Three members of the surgical team stepped out into the corridor, pulling their disposable caps and gloves off and untying their sweat-stained surgical masks.

The doors were locked open and four more surgically garbed people exited the room, carefully guiding a gurney.

The two waiting firemen rose stiffly to their feet, and Roy released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

The gurney's occupant's heavily bandaged head was **not** covered with a sheet. There seemed to be tubes and wires attached everywhere, though. John's eyes were taped shut and the anesthesiologist was still assisting his breathing.

The two off-duty paramedic's watched, as the gurney was quickly wheeled off in the direction of the Recovery Room.

Paul Kurtz turned to the youngest member of his surgical team and flashed him a warm smile. "Lee, I don't mind tellin' yah…it was a _pleasure_ startin' the new year's surgical schedule off with 'a piece of the rock'," he teased and motioned to the young man's ungloved appendages.

Lee studied the backs of his steady hands for a few moments and then returned both the smile and the compliment. "I just never get nervous watching you work, Paul."

Kurtz snapped one of his latex gloves at his young associate.

Lee went snickering off down the corridor.

The surgeon grinned and went to leave himself. He turned around to find two sets of worry-filled eyes gazing back at him. He studied the two guys the eyes were attached to for a few seconds, before finally acknowledging their presence. "Ye-es?"

"How is he?" Roy inquired, his voice reflecting the worry in his eyes.

"You two fellow officers?"

"We're firemen," Craig corrected. "John is a fireman."

The surgeon seemed surprised. "I'm sorry. When they told me somebody had _shot_ him, I just naturally assumed he was a police officer." He gazed off down the hall, in the direction of the Recovery Room. "Why would anybody ever wanna _shoot_ a _fireman_?" he wondered aloud. He gave his head a quick shake and then turned his attention back to the two firemen. "I'm really not at liberty to discuss a patient's condition with anyone other than immediate family members."

"He's my brother," Roy replied, without so much as a moment's hesitation.

"All firemen are brothers," Craig quickly explained, upon noting the surgeon's look of extreme skepticism.

The physician was forced to smile. "Then it appears to me that the two of you _more_ than qualify. Look, do you mind if we sit down? It's been a rather lo-o-ong day." He saw that the firemen appeared to be every bit as exhausted as he was and they readily approved of his suggestion.

The three weary men dragged themselves over to the bench across from the O.R., and then dropped themselves down onto it.

"I left my wife at a dinner party across town," Kurtz began. "She was upset because I wouldn't _dance_ with her. I told her she should just be grateful that I could even _stand_ with her, after eight straight hours in the O.R.—not to mention the two and a half hours I spent making my rounds." The physician finished with the small talk and flashed the fireman's worried 'brothers' a broad grin. "The surgery couldn't possibly have gone any better! We were able to stop the brain bleed and repair _all _the damages. His vitals are solid. His EEG looks good. Pupilary response is completely normal. **Barring**_ complications_, I anticipate a complete recovery—in four to six weeks."

The relief flooding through Roy's body suddenly hit the Hoover Dam. "_Complications_?"

"As is the case with victims of traumatic brain injury, the next 48 hours are critical. Also, any time you have an open wound and unsanitary conditions, there is the _threat_ of infection. Apparently, he breathed a bit of blood into his lungs. So there is a _possibility_ he could develop aspiration pneumonia. Right now, we're _pouring_ antibiotics into him, and hoping for the best. He's currently on an anti-convulsant and we'll be keeping him under heavy sedation—to allow the healing to begin."

Roy felt the floodgates open—a little. "When will we be able to see him?"

The surgeon flashed the fireman's brother a sympathetic smile. "How about...you ask me that question again…in 48 hours?"

DeSoto mustered up a small smile himself and extended a hand to his best friend's physician. "Thank you, Dr. Kurtz. You can count on it!"

**TBC**


	17. Chapter 17

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Seventeen**

Three and a half hours later, at LACFD Headquarters…

Hank Stanley saw Craig Brice standing in front of an open door to a conference room. He stepped up to him and extended a hand. "Thanks for the heads up, Craig. What's this all about?"

Craig took and shook the Captain's hand. "I have no idea, sir. But I felt _you_ should probably be here."

Chief Jenner, and three other Department Chiefs, came strolling down the hall and up to the two firemen.

"Brice," Jenner acknowledged, with a sympathetic smile. "Thank you for coming down."

"What's this all about, sir?" Craig queried. "I thought I had explained everything in my report."

The Fire Chief glanced down at the photocopied report in his hands. "So did **I**," he admitted. His gaze shifted to the open door. "Apparently, there are _some_ in need of a little 'clearer' explanation. I realize you've been up all night. So we'll try not to keep you _too_ long." He turned to the other fireman. "You're John's Captain, right?"

John's Captain nodded and extended a hand. "Hank Stanley, Chief. Station 51."

Jenner gave Hank's hand a hearty shaking. "Glad you could make it." He motioned for the Captain and the paramedic to precede them into the conference room.

They did.

* * *

Eight men were already seated around the room's rather large conference table. They stopped talking and riveted their undivided attention upon the new arrivals.

One of the seated men aimed an icy glare at the Captain. "I don't recall _you_ being invited to attend this meeting…"

"An oversight Fireman Brice, here, has _fortunately_ seen fit to _correct_, Chief Larson," Jenner cooly stated, and gave the complainer a rather icy glare of his own. "Gentlemen, Fireman Craig Brice…and Fireman Gage's Captain, Hank Stanley," he introduced. "Left to right, Chief Baird, Department Regulations…IFA's Union representative, Mr. Edward Row…Chief Larson, Internal Affairs…Lieutenant Tekely, LAPD's Narcotics' Division…Captain James Mason, Station 16…and Battalion Chiefs Geden…Novachic…and DeWitt." He motioned to his companions. "Chief Brevik, Operations…Chief Dalbert, Public Relations…and Chief Hendrickson, Human Relations."

Brice gave the men a slight nod and then he and the Captain assumed their seats.

The Chief Engineer and his entourage took their seats.

Jenner cleared his throat and continued, "I think it should be pointed out, right from the start, that this is not an 'Official Board of Inquiry', but merely a little fact-finding session, which will—hopefully—clear this 'matter' up, to _everyone's_ satisfaction," he tacked on, and stared directly at Baird, Larson and Tekely. He held up the photocopied report. "Is there anyone here who _hasn't_ had the chance to read Fireman Brice's report, yet?" He saw Stanley raise his hand and motioned for Chief Brevik to present the Captain with a copy of the report.

The Fire Chief then decided to wait until John's Captain was caught up to speed, before continuing with the meeting.

* * *

Several silent minutes later…

Station 51's Captain glanced up from the report and gave Jenner an appreciative nod.

"Very well," Jenner began again, "are there any questions?"

Several hands shot up.

"Yes, Chief Larson?"

Larson slowly lowered his arm. "Fireman Brice, why was Fireman Gage _out of uniform_?"

"Article 4, Section 7, Paragraph 3 of the Los Angeles County Fire Department's Handbook of Rules and Regulations clearly states that a firefighter's turnout gear shall be constituted as his regulation uniform while said firefighter is engaged in Fire Department activities. John was engaged in Fire Department activities. So he was **not** out of uniform," Craig corrected. "Except for the four occasions mentioned in my report. **If** you _have_ read it, then you already _have_ my answer to that question." He turned to Jenner. "I have nothing further to add to my report, sir. Could we please go on to the next question?"

Jenner watched as Larson's face filled with indignation. He pursed his lips and forced himself to look away. "Ye-es. Yes, of course. Lt. Tekely, you had a question?"

The Lieutenant nodded. "I have also had the opportunity to read the _official police_ _reports_ on all three of the incidents mentioned in your report." He gave Brice a smug smile. "Perhaps you'd care to explain your partner's reckless, even downright careless, behavior at the second incid—"

"—Lieutenant," Craig interrupted, "I don't know what the _official police_ _reports _have to say. Unlike you, **I** was not given the 'opportunity' to read them. I can only comment on what I know for a fact to BE the _facts_. As I have _already stated _in my report, my partner's behavior at the second incident was neither reckless nor careless. In fact, I criticized him for being overly cautious. John requested the ETA of a police backup unit—even _before_ we arrived on the scene."

"Then why did my men find him parading around _out of uniform_ and carrying on his own private 'under-cover' investigation into **police** business?"

"As I have_ already stated _in my report," Craig repeated, doing his level best to remain calm, "Dispatch informed us that there would _be_ _no_ police backup to our incident. We were told the police were too busy to take care of **their** business."

"That still doesn't explain _why_ he took it upon himself to investigate the situation! He should have called for backup sooner, instead of carrying on his own little 'under-cover' operation!"

Brice was waaaay too tired to be 'understanding'. But he drew a deep breath into his lungs and tried anyway. "It is rather difficult to explain matters of judgment. However, I shall attempt to do so.

Because no two incidents are ever exactly alike, we had no past experience to draw back on.

John was the first to suspect trouble. But he had no positive proof that we were, in fact, being set up. He was relying solely on judgment and instinct.

A-and, since headquarters had just advised us to call for backup **only** after _assessing our situation thoroughly_, John felt obligated to prove that we did, in fact, require police assistance." The paramedic paused. "I must confess, my initial reaction to John's unconventional approach to evidence gathering was a negative one. But then I realized that _his_ way would expose us to the least amount of danger." He paused again and sat there, looking rather pleased. "As it turned out, John's unorthodox approach proved to be **both** _safer_, a-and _highly successful_."

The Lieutenant saw the others were forced to nod in agreement. Hell! Even _he_ couldn't argue with that last statement. The officer stared down at his official police reports, and remained silent.

'One down,' Jenner thought.

Two more hands shot up.

"Yes, Chief Baird?"

"Captain Mason, do you intend to take disciplinary action against Fireman Gage?"

"No, I do not."

"But he disobeyed a direct order."

"Yeah. I'm not exactly thrilled about that. However, I can certainly understand _why_ he felt compelled to do so. Besides, Gage wouldn't have been put in position to have to disobey that order in the first place, if **I** hadn't told him to climb into that Squad. The only thing Gage is guilty of, is helping a fellow paramedic out in a bind."

"But he disrespected your authority."

Mason glared at Baird in disbelief. "You wanna talk about _disrespect_? How about the way this Department disrespects **him**—and every other firefighter in the Paramedic Program? These guys give **their all**—_every damn day_! And how are they repaid? The Department uses some bullshit regulation about California's State Civil Service Pay Scale laws to force them to choose between the job they love—and providing for their families financially, by taking their promotions.

The most skilled, most qualified, most experienced, most _dedicated_ guys the program's got—are being _forced _out! It's going to take months, maybe even years, for the new trainees to complete the learning curve they need to go through to get to where these veterans are at!

Squad 16 had to be taken out of service last night, because the paramedics' ranks have been so depleted by this cockamamie Civil Service Pay rule, there just aren't enough guys to fill in when somebody gets sick, or injured—or _shot_!"

"Jim's right," Hank spoke up. "John's partner, Roy DeSoto, has already passed up his promotion _three times_, in order to stay with the program. But he can't keep doing that indefinitely. He's got a couple of kids he has to put through college. If something isn't done to change the 'equal pay for equal work' law, a lot more squads are gonna hafta be parked!"

Brice exhaled a weary sigh and turned to his Supreme Commander. "Sir, as I have already stated, I have nothing further to add to my report. And, after spending the past three hours typing a written report, I can see no reason for me to have to make the same report all over again—orally.

Besides, it is becoming more and more apparent to me, that the questions being asked here are directed more at _fault_ finding than _fact_ finding. Captain Mason and I should not have to sit here, defending Gage's actions. If there are those who wish to bring accusations against him, I suggest they wait until he can be here to defend himself.

Not that he has any need to defend himself. John Gage is one of the most competent, totally dedicated firefighters I have ever had the honor to work with!

It was unfortunate enough that some 'sicko' had to put a bullet in his head! I do not intend to sit here, while certain members of this 'session' attempt to knife him in the back!

So, if you will excuse me, sirs…" Brice slowly slid his chair back…rose stiffly to his feet…and left.

Station 51's Captain popped up out of his seat. "What _he_ said," he bitterly remarked and immediately exited the conference room.

His fellow Captain followed quickly on his heels.

"Fireman Brice has summed up my feelings, as well, gentlemen," Jenner announced. "If this 'situation' requires any further 'clearing up', it will just have to wait until Fireman Gage is in a position to do the _clearing_."

* * *

Chet Kelly was awakened from a sound sleep, by an irritatingly loud ringing sound. He snapped bolt upright, swung his legs off of his sofa and started reaching for the bottom half of his turnouts. He suddenly realized where he was and untensed.

The annoying ringing continued.

The off-duty fireman grimaced and glanced at his watch. He noted the early hour and grimaced again. "Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Okay," he grumbled. "Now that you've ruined my first big chance to 'sleep in' all week!" he further grouched and started crawling across couch cushions, to pick his phone up from the lampstand. "Hello?" he answered, in mid-ring. "Marco, have you lost your mind—calling me this _early_? Couldn't whatever it is have waited until you pick me up?…What d'yah mean '_you won't be picking me up_'? I hope you didn't call just to tell me your car's broke down…" Kelly listened to his friend's really good reason for calling him so _early_. Then he just knelt there, too numb from shock and disbelief to reply.

* * *

Carl Iverson opened his apartment door and stooped down to retrieve his morning paper.

He scooped the paper up and then crossed back into his kitchen.

Iverson shook the thing open, expecting to find some news about a 'missing fireman'.

Instead, he discovered a small article, in the front page's bottom left corner, announcing that a Los Angeles County fireman had been shot and wounded, accompanying story on 12-D.

The criminal could not believe his eyes! He'd put a bullet in the guy's brain—from practically point-blank range! He was certain he didn't miss! He'd seen the fireman's head snap back from the bullet's impact!

Carl read the entire article. Then he crumpled the paper up into a big ball and tossed it toward his wastebasket.

The _shooter_ stood there in his kitchen, kicking himself for _not_ checking to make _sure_ the fireman was, indeed, **dead**.

It was a mistake he could ill afford to make. It was a mistake he would **not** make _again_!

**TBC**


	18. Chapter 18

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Eighteen**

"You're in early," Paul Kurtz told the doctor who had just tapped on his office's open door. He motioned for his friend to enter and have a seat.

"I'm just coming off," Kel Brackett corrected, and collapsed into a heavily padded chair.

"What's the point of being the head of your department, if you can't give yourself the night off?"

"I actually _had _the night off. But then my New Year's Eve dinner date ended up in bed, with a bad case of the flu, and I got the noble notion to swap shifts with Ben Tyler. How did John Gage's surgery go?"

"I sent someone over to Medical Records, to dig up a little background info on this patient. Look at this!" Kurtz waved an arm over the mound of folders and manila x-ray packets that were strewn across his desk. "And this is just from the past twelve months! They said they would've needed a wheelbarrow to haul it _all_ over here!" The doctor gazed down at the mountain of clutter in amazement. "What is this guy's problem? I mean, is his line of work really _that _dangerous? Or is he just the most accident prone fireman in the entire country?"

Kel stared sadly down at the stacks of hospital records. "Let's just say his job has been extremely hazardous to his health…and leave it at that."

"Wait a minute…" The surgeon had detected the bitterness in Brackett's voice. "This guy wouldn't happen to be a _paramedic_…and, hence, a _personal_ friend of yours…would he?"

"He's not _just_ a paramedic. Johnny's one of the _best_ paramedics this hospital has ever trained! And, yes! He happens to be a _close_ personal friend of mine!" Brackett slammed the palm of his hand down on the padded arm of his chair. "This whole 'shooting' business is just so **da-amn** _senseless_!"

"Agreed!" Kurtz flashed his frustrated fellow physician a sympathetic smile. "Barring complications, I am _extremely optimistic_ that he'll make a _complete_ recovery…in four to six weeks."

Kel exhaled a deep sigh of relief and got stiffly to his feet. He gave the good—er, great news bearer a grateful grin and extended a hand across the cluttered desk. "Thanks, Paul! _That_ is what I was hoping to hear!"

Kurtz took and shook his happy associate's proffered appendage.

"Now, if you'll excuse me…I hafta make a 'house call'."

"Tell Dixie I hope she feels better _real_ soon!" Paul called after the disappearing doctor.

* * *

Chet spent New Year's Day moping about his apartment.

He didn't even bother to turn his TV set on. If he couldn't watch the bowl games with his buddies, he'd just as soon not see them, at all.

His sullen mood may have had something to do with the fact that he kept hearing his words, _"And, by the end of the shift, LA will be completely destroyed…and only one of them will be left standing. I'm betting it's The Smog Monster,"_ over and over, in his head.

His comments in the parking lot, after their last shift, had been made **strictly** in _jest_.

Still, Kelly couldn't help thinking that he'd somehow _jinxed_ Johnny's shift.

* * *

Joanne watched as her four-year-old placed one too many plates down on the dinner table. "Chris, honey, you've got one too many. Put one back on the cupboard and then go upstairs and get your Grandmother. Tell her it's time to eat."

Christopher looked completely confused and carefully recounted the dishes. "I got just enough," the boy assured his mother.

Joanne saw that her son seemed pretty determined _not_ to remove any of the plates from the table, and suppressed a smile. "Very well. Then go get your grandmother and your sister. We're going to eat just as soon as they get down here."

The boy looked even more confused. "We can't eat ye-et. Uncle John's not here."

Christopher's parents exchanged solemn glances.

Roy stood there in his kitchen, struggling for the right words to explain a very unpleasant situation. "Your Uncle John can't come over tonight, Chris."

"But you said last ni—"

"—I know," Roy interrupted. "Your Uncle John can't come because he got…_hurt_ last night."

The boy stood there, staring up at his father with big, sad eyes, and biting his lower lip. "Is he in the hopspital again?"

His parents swapped another pair of solemn glances.

Roy's undivided attention returned to his son, and he _reluctantly_ nodded.

Christopher stared up at the extra plate. "Kin I eat after a while?" he quietly inquired. "I'm not very hungry right no-ow…"

Roy could relate to that. He bent down and swooped the boy up in his arms. "Sure, Chris. The two of us'll eat…later."

* * *

At around nine that night, Patrol Officers Nick Fedrizzi and Alexander Michaelson were summoned back to their stationhouse and told to report to the Desk Sergeant.

* * *

"You wanted to see us, Sarge?" Mike asked.

Sergeant Les Grange glanced up from his reports, saw the two uniformed officers standing before him, and grinned. "Uh-uh, yea-eah. We just got a call from some hysterical old lady who _swears_ that there is a _fireman_ hiding in the trash bin behind her apartment building." Grange struggled desperately to continue, without losing control. "I, uh, called you two 'experts' in here…because _finding firemen_ is…_right up your alley_!" The Sergeant could no longer contain himself, he—and everyone else within earshot—cracked up laughing.

Well, everyone but the two 'experts', that is.

The officers snatched the incident address from their still chuckling Desk Sergeant, and beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

Eight minutes later, Unit 11 pulled up to an apartment building.

Nick started to exit the car, but his partner held him back.

"I'm tellin' yah," Mike warned, "this has _got_ to be a **gag**! _If _there **is** an 'old lady', she's probably the Sarge's grandmother, or somethin'!"

His partner simply smiled…and pulled his arm free.

* * *

Apartment 12 was located on the alley side of the building's ground floor.

The two 'experts' stepped up to the door and rang the buzzer.

"Who is it?" a woman's muffled voice called out.

"Police Officers, Ma-am!" Nick calmly called back. "Please, open up!"

Locks clicked. A deadbolt rattled. Chains jingled…and the portal slowly swung open. "He's still in there!" the elderly lady who appeared in the apartment's doorway blurted. "I've been watching the Dumpster the whole time, and he hasn't come out ye—"

"—Ma-am," Officer Michaelson interrupted, "what's this all about?" The policeman didn't have a whole lot of patience when it came to practical jokes. Heck! He didn't have a whole lot of patience—period!

Speaking of patience…

The 'hysterical old lady' was rapidly becoming a bit impatient herself. "This is about a fireman in my trash bin! My word! Don't they tell you _anything_ before they send you off somewheres?" She took the two officers by the elbow and started hauling them off down the hall. "Come along, boys! Before he gets away, and you two cart me off to the 'funny farm', or wherever it is they take crazy old ladies, these days!"

The 'experts' glanced at each other with arched brows and reluctantly allowed themselves to be towed along.

* * *

The woman ushered the cops out of the back of the building, down a dark alley a ways, and right up to a rather large, shiny _red_ trash bin. She then released her captives and stood there, waiting for them to 'raise the lid' on their investigation…so to speak.

The two officers stood there, feeling more than a little foolish.

Nick flicked his flashlight on and _finally _started reaching for the bin's lid.

"You're not _really_ going to go through with this?" his partner hopefully inquired.

"Yes. WE _really_ are," Nick calmly replied and carefully raised the heavy metal cover.

They shone both their lights into the bin.

Neither officer was surprised to find the rubbish container completely empty—save for one large, black plastic trash bag. The men exchanged 'knowing' glances.

Which the old lady noticed. She raised herself up onto the tip of her toes and peered down into the bin. She _did_ appear to be genuinely surprised to find it empty. "He's go-one!"

"Yup!" Mike snidely remarked. He picked the black plastic bag up from the bottom of the bin and then dropped it. "He just dropped his trash and ran!"

Nick shot his partner an 'oh brother' look and then turned back to the old woman. "Are you related, in any way, to Sergeant Les Grange—or anybody _else_ over at the 12th Precinct—for that matter?"

The woman completely ignored the cop's question. "I'm telling you, there **was** a _fireman_ in this trash bin! I heard him talking—just as plainly as I just heard you!"

The two officers exchanged 'knowing' glances again.

"You 'heard him talking', did you?" Mike insincerely inquired.

The old lady nodded.

"To _who_?" the 'experts' asked—in unison.

The woman shrugged. "That's what I called you two here to investigate."

"What, exactly, did this 'fireman' have to say?" Nick wondered.

The lady replied with another shrug of her shoulders. "I dunno. I can't remember, _exactly_. Just the sort of things a _fireman _would sa—"

"—**LA**," a man's voice suddenly blurted from out of nowhere—er, from out of the trash bin, actually.

The two police officers stiffened and their hands dropped instinctively to their hips.

"**The fire on the 1200 block of Lakeland Avenue is now under control. Cancel additional units. Squad 16 is available. Engine 16 out one hour…**"

"Things like _that_!" the old lady declared and pointed toward her trash bin, in triumph.

The 'experts' were momentarily too dumbfounded to speak. They stood there, staring at the 'talking' trash bin, in disbelief.

"**10-4, Engine 16…**" another man's voice piped up and out. "**All units responding with Station 16, cancel…**"

Mike finally regained enough of his composure to take action. He reached down into the bin and picked the trash bag back up. He set it carefully down at their feet and undid the twist tie. Once the bag was open, he carefully dumped its contents out onto the pavement.

Neither officer seemed all that surprised to see a fireman's bloody turnout coat and a black helmet, with a paramedic's emblem on it, fall out of the bag.

Nick pulled a clean hanky out and then crouched down to check the coat's pockets. He discovered a handheld radio in a black leather case.

"**Squad 16…**" the handy-talky crackled to life once more. "**Standby for a response…**"

"**Squad 16. Go ahead, LA…**"

'_Bleep.' 'Bleep_.' "**Squad 16…Man down…**"

The two policemen exchanged 'knowing' glances for the third time in as many minutes.

Then Nick looked up at their informant. "Ma-am, you didn't happen to **see** _who_ dropped this bag into this bin, did you?"

The old lady looked thoughtful. "To tell you the truth, I've never really paid all that much attention to my trash bin…until it started 'talking', of course."

The officers were forced to smile. "Of course."

**TBC**


	19. Chapter 19

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Nineteen**

At around two in the morning, Craig Brice was awakened by a loud '_BANG_' ing on his apartment door. He buried his head beneath his pillow and tried to put the annoying noise out of his sleep-deprived mind.

But the irritating pounding persisted.

So he tossed his pillow and covers, climbed stiffly out of his comfortable bed and staggered off, to put a stop to the disturbing racket.

* * *

The paramedic placed one of his half-open eyes up against the portal's peephole.

His partner was standing out in the building's lit hallway—in his uniform.

Brice unlocked the door and allowed him access. "What are you doing here, at this ungodly hour of the morning, dressed like _that_, Dave?"

"Sorry 'bout that," Bellingham replied. "But this was the only way I could reach you. Your phone seems to be out of order."

"I took it off the hook."

"Paul Seachrist and Brian Moschetti were in a building collapse a little while ag—"

"—They gonna be okay?"

"I guess they got pretty banged up. Headquarters wants _us_ to fill in for the rest of their shift."

Craig stood there, staring incredulously at his early-morning visitor. "If this is supposed to be somebody's idea of a joke, I do _not_ find it amusing."

"I'm serious!" Dave assured him. "I've got Squad 36 parked right outside…"

Jim Mason's rant, about how the Fire Department disrespects its paramedics, replayed in the overly fatigued fireman's brain. Speaking of his tired brain…Brice had half a' mind to just tell Headquarters to 'Shove it!', and crawl back into his cozy, warm, inviting bed.

Alas, the Captain's further comment, about paramedics being so highly dedicated, was also accurate.

Craig exhaled a resigned sigh and headed off to find a fresh uniform.

* * *

Three hours later…

A stolen van backed up to a loading dock at the 'Service Entrance' behind Rampart General Hospital.

Carl Iverson used the vehicle's rear view mirror to make a few minor adjustments to his phony wig and beard. Then he zipped the front of his stolen coveralls up and exited the van.

* * *

He pulled the vehicle's back doors open and then wheeled a large cart out onto the loading ramp. He pushed the cart across the deserted dock and then stood there, fumbling with a set of stolen keys. He tried several, before he finally got the 'Service Entrance' unlocked. The keys were shoved back into a pocket and he and his cart disappeared into the building.

* * *

One of the nurses, on duty at the Nurses' Station on the sixth floor, heard the elevator '_ping_'. The woman glanced up from the patient chart she'd been studying, to watch who got off.

The doors slid open. A guy stepped out into the deserted corridor and pushed a cart into the ICU's Visitor's Lounge.

The nurse gave the back of his blue coveralls a disinterested glance and returned her attention to the medical chart.

It was just the 'Shaefer Vending' guy, as usual, coming to fill the coffee vending machine, as usual, and the coffee would probably be 'lousy'…as usual.

The woman glanced up again, as a couple of loud '_crashing_' sounds suddenly came from the lounge. She set the chart down on the counter and hurried over to investigate.

* * *

Doris Mestnik stood in the room's open doorway with her eyes wide and her mouth agape.

The 'Shaefer Vending' cart and the vending machine were overturned and coffee was pouring out onto the carpeted floor of the lounge—in gushes!

"What the—?" she exclaimed and took a fateful step forward.

As the woman's head cleared the doorway, the **not** so _usual_ 'Shaefer Vending' guy brought a heavy metal pitcher down upon it.

The nurse joined the coffee on the floor of the lounge.

Iverson raised the pitcher back over his head and calmly waited, pressed up against the wall beside the open doorway, for another unsuspecting victim to step into his trap.

* * *

The criminal's '_clanging_' and '_crashing_' trap claimed two more casualties.

* * *

Finally, five full minutes passed—and no other hospital personnel appeared at the Nurses' Station, and no one else showed their head into the room.

So Carl lowered the pitcher, stepped calmly over an unconscious nurse and back out into the deserted corridor.

* * *

RN Patricia Sandstrom was seated at a console, in a glassed-in cubicle behind the ICU's Nurses' Station, staring at a wall of closed-circuit television screens. She heard the doorknob '_cli-ick_' and turned her head, for just an instant, to see who had opened the portal. "Thanks, anyway," she told the 'Shaefer Vending' guy with the pitcher in his hands, "but we have our own coffe-maker, here, at the Nurses' Sta—" The woman stopped speaking, as something smacked the top of her head—very hard. The TV screens—and everything else—went blank.

Iverson stared calmly up at the lit screens.

**601 **showed a child, peacefully sleeping.

**603 **depicted an elderly woman, also dozing.

**604 **showed…

Carl smiled and quickly left the cubicle. He didn't hear the phone '_ringing_' and '_ringing_' on the counter at the Nurses' Station.

But then, neither did anybody else.

* * *

At another Nurses' Station, five floors below…

"That's odd," Craig Brice muttered to his partner, and slowly lowered the phone from his ear. "No one's picking up…"

"They're probably too busy to answer it right now," Dave Bellingham informed his zombie-like companion. "C'mon! You can try again, once we get back to _ou-our_ Station."

Craig ignored him. He quickly clicked the receiver down, waited for a dial tone and then rang the hospital switchboard back. "Yes. Room **600-A**, please…" he requested and then stood there, impatiently drumming his fingers on the countertop. The paramedic's impatience quickly turned to panic. "Something's wrong!" he determined and shoved the phone at his startled partner. "Send hospital security up to the sixth floor and call the police!"

"Bri-ice—?" Bellingham began to protest, but gave up, as his panicking partner disappeared down the hall, in the direction of the elevators.

* * *

John Gage couldn't move. Smoke was pouring into the room he was lying in and it was getting harder and harder for him to breathe. He tried to crawl clear of the smoke, but his arms and legs seemed to be paralyzed. "Ro-oy!" he called out, in complete desperation.

* * *

Roy DeSoto awoke with a start, fully expecting to find his partner standing over him. Instead, he found himself lying—alone—in his living room. He'd fallen asleep, fully clothed, on his sofa, and his thoughtful wife had covered him with a blanket.

He gazed around the empty room in confusion. He could've sworn he'd heard Johnny calling him. The unsettled man settled back under his blanket and closed his eyes.

* * *

Gage was growing more and more light-headed, from oxygen deprivation. He tried, one last time, to summon his partner. "Help…me…Roy! I can't…I…can't…brea-eathe!"

* * *

This time, DeSoto sat bolt upright. He'd just heard his partner calling for him—again. He got stiffly up off the couch and started heading for his bedroom.

* * *

"Jo?" Roy quietly spoke and gave his sleeping spouse's shoulder a gentle shaking.

His wife's eyes half-opened. "Umm. What time is it?"

"Five thirty."

Joanne sat up in their bed. "Did the hospital call?"

"Not exactly," her husband replied. "Look, I can't explain it—I don't even understand 'why', myself—but I _gotta_ go!"

"Go where?"

"The hospital."

"What's the point? They're not going to let you see him. Why can't you just ca—?"

"—I told you, I can't explain it."

Joanne wasn't exactly thrilled with his 'can't explain it' explanation, but she smiled in surrender. "I guess if you _gotta_ go, you _gotta_ go."

Roy planted a kiss on his understanding wife's forehead and then disappeared out the door.

* * *

Carl Iverson stood beside the fireman's bed, in ICU's Room **604**, holding a pillow pressed firmly over the unconscious young man's face. He met with no resistance. But then, even without being heavily sedated, the gravely injured guy's strength would have been no match for his own.

* * *

Carl continued to hold the pillow firmly in place. He stood there, calmly watching a little green line dance across the monitor screen above his head. It seemed to take an eternity, but, at last, its constant, steady rhythm began to change.

The line started jerking rapidly up and down and at a completely random pace.

Iverson didn't hear the '_clanging_' of alarms automatically being triggered by his victim's sudden coronary distress.

But then, neither did anybody else.

**TBC**


	20. Chapter 20

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty**

The lift's doors finally slid open.

Craig's ears were instantly assaulted by the loud 'clanging' of alarms.

Brice exploded from the elevator and bolted down the corridor. 'Wonder what happened to _them_?' he thought, noting the motionless bodies on the floor of the Visitors' Lounge.

Speaking of what had happened to _them_…

The paramedic suddenly recalled what had happened to the _last_ fireman who had entered a room unexpectedly—and immediately skidded to a stop. He turned around and went racing back over to the Nurses' Station.

* * *

Craig stepped behind the counter and entered Room 600-A.

The paramedic's probing fingers told him that the nurse slumped in front of the ICU's closed-circuit TV console had a strong and steady pulse. His focus shifted to the wall of lit screens.

**601 **showed a child, peacefully asleep.

**603 **depicted an elderly woman, also dozing.

**604 **showed…

"No!" the viewer exclaimed. "**No-o!**" He turned and ran from the room.

* * *

Craig went racing back down the corridor.

Unexpected, or not, he _had_ to make an entrance _right_ _no-ow_!

* * *

And what an _entrance_ he made!

"**Sto-op!**" Brice begged as he burst through the door to ICU's Room 604 and tackled John's assailant from behind. The fireman's momentum, along with the Law of Gravity, pulled the guy in the blue coveralls off of Gage and sent them both sailing—headlong—into the wall.

Fortunately, the coverall-ed creep decided to flee instead of fight—or _fire_!

Craig exhaled a sigh of relief and quickly scrambled to his feet. He snatched the pillow from his new friend's face and whipped it clear across the room.

Gage's airway was gone. His chest was _not_ moving, and he had a _deathlike_ appearance.

Brice glanced up at the cardiac monitor and noted the _flat_ green line.

No pulse…no respirations…deathlike appearance—John _was _**dead**!…_Clinically_ speaking.

"**No-o!**" Craig exclaimed, for the third time in less than two minutes. 'Time! The difference between _clinical _and _biological_ death is all just a matter of _precious time_!' the paramedic reminded himself and immediately went to work.

The first action he took was to press the red button on the wall above the hospital bed's headboard. He needed to start CPR. But, if Gage was hemorrhaging again, forced ventilations could cause him to aspirate all that blood that might be trickling down from his sinus passages and into the back of his throat.

He dashed over to one of the room's glass-doored cupboards. He found what he was looking for and returned to John's side.

'Time! Precious time!' the paramedic mentally repeated and expertly guided the airway into place. Then he placed his mouth over the end of it, pinched the patient's nostrils closed, and blew four quick, building breaths of air into his oxygen starved lungs.

Gage's chest rose.

Brice removed his mouth from the end of the tube.

John's chest fell.

Craig grabbed a metal tray from the medicine stand and flipped it upside-down. He whipped the bed sheets off and slid the tray under the patient's bare back. He needed a hard surface, if his chest compressions were to be effective. He stepped up onto the bed's side rail, to get the proper angle—and needed leverage. Next, he placed the palm of his right hand over the back of his left and locked his fingers together. Finally, he carefully positioned his joined hands over the patient's sternum. "One," _press_. "And," _release_. "Two," _press_. "And," _release_.

* * *

The paramedic performed five complete series of fifteen compressions to two ventilations, before the door to **604** _finally_ flew open.

"What happened?" Doctor Tyler demanded, as he and two nurses from Emergency Receiving burst into the room, towing a crash cart.

"Someone just tried…to kill him," Brice answered, between breaths. "_Again_!"

"Has he been shot?"

Craig shook his head. "They tried…suffocation…_this_ time!" he explained, between compressions.

"Tried?" Tyler stood there, watching the paramedic at work. Since CPR is only performed on _clinically_ **dead** people, it appeared that 'they' did _more_ than just 'try'—they'd succeeded! The physician put off the half-dozen other questions he'd like to have answered and turned to the two nurses. "All set?"

They nodded.

"Okay. Hold CPR," Tyler requested.

Brice did, and all open eyes in the room riveted upon the cardiac monitor.

"Still flatline!" the doctor determined.

One of the nurses had placed the form-fitting mask of an ambu-bag over the cyanotic fireman's face and attached a resuscitator. She began force-ventilating their still non-breathing patient with 100 percent oxygen.

"Four hundred watt seconds," the other nurse announced and attempted to pass a pair of lubricated defibrillator paddles to Tyler.

The doctor declined the offer and motioned for her to hand them over to Brice. "You've done just fine without me…" he explained, upon seeing the paramedic's puzzled expression.

'So far…' Craig took the tools and unhesitantly positioned the _anterior_ paddle below John's right clavicle, lateral to the sternum, and the _apex_ paddle lateral to his left nipple, with the paddle's center on the midaxillary line.

"Four!" one of the nurses announced.

"Clear!" Craig called out. Upon seeing that all personnel were clear of the patient, the bed and any equipment connected to the patient or bed, he simultaneously pressed and held the **SHOCK** buttons on the paddle grips, until the electrical discharge occurred.

John's lifeless body was jolted up off the bed.

Brice released the buttons and looked up at the cardiac monitor.

The flat green line remained, stretching from one side of the screen to the other—without any deviation whatsoever.

"Try your drugs and then zap him again," the doctor ordered, his voice remaining completely—and ridiculously—calm.

Brice exchanged the defibrillator paddles for an IC syringe.

One of the nurses swabbed an area of skin on the patient's bare chest.

Craig inserted the tip of the hypo's long needle and injected its contents directly into John's stalled heart, in an attempt to _chemically_ jump-start it. Next, he administered a lidocaine bolus and two ampules of sodium bicarbonate into their patient's IV port.

The nurse passed the re-lubricated paddles back to the paramedic.

"Where you able to start CPR right away?" Tyler wondered, while they waited for the charge to build.

"I don't know. He could have been in full arrest for quite a while—before I got here. I was afraid he might aspirate, so I took the time to insert an airway…"

There was that precious time factor, again.

The physician noted that the paramedic had some self-doubts about delaying CPR. "You did the right thing!" he assured the unsure young man, without moving his gaze from the cardiac monitor. "That was quick thinking on your part!" he commended.

"Four!" the nurse announced.

"Clear!" Craig called out, feeling a bit more confident in himself and his abilities.

The little green line shot up to the top of—and clear off of—the monitor's screen. Then it abruptly settled back down to a very flat—unwavering—band of green light again.

"No conversion," the doctor determined, extreme disappointment evident in his still surprisingly steady voice.

The nurses resumed CPR.

'Time! Precious time!' Craig kept repeating, over and over to himself. He suddenly realized that, at some point, he had broken into a cold sweat. He turned to the doctor for some sound counsel. There was simply **no** _time_ to waste on any _wrong_ moves!

Tyler could see that the paramedic's self-doubts had returned—in full force. "What would you do if **I** _wasn't_ here?" he calmly inquired.

"I'd pump some more adrenaline into him and then hit him again!" Brice came back, without a moment's hesitation.

"That is _exactly_ what **I** would do if **you **weren't here!" the physician informed him.

Craig inserted an IC syringe again and injected John's still stalled heart with another powerful dose of adrenaline.

"I think that caught his attention," the doctor determined, as the straight green line began to oscillate a little. He personally set the charge and then passed the re-lubricated paddles to the paramedic. "Go on! Zap him again—before we lose it!"

Brice positioned the paddles.

"Four!" Tyler told him.

"Clear!"

The nurses stopped CPR and stepped back for a third time.

For a third time, John's motionless body was jolted up off the bed, from a strong electric shock.

And, for a third time, the little green band of light shot completely up off the cardiac monitor. But, _this_ time—for the _first_ time—when it returned to the center of the screen, it produced one…two…three feeble, somewhat erratic, jerks. The faint electrical activity could hardly be dubbed a heartbeat, however.

No one said a word.

A fourth…fifth…and then sixth jerk appeared in the line.

Still, no one spoke.

Then a seventh, stronger jerk suddenly caused the flat green band of light to dance up on the screen.

"**There!**" Tyler shouted, finally losing his cool. "That's it! That's the stuff heartbeats are made of! The adrenaline must've finally kicked in!" he determined, as the next dozen or so beats duplicated the dance of the seventh. "Well done, people!" the physician further exclaimed, giving the paramedic a congratulatory slap on the back, and the nurses an approving nod. "We've got _sinus rhythm_!"

**TBC**


	21. Chapter 21

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Craig's gaze remained fixed upon his patient's cardiac monitor. He was afraid to look away…afraid that when his gaze returned that damn _flat_ line would be back.

Everyone jerked, startled, as John's chest suddenly heaved with a labored breath.

"Respirations are spontaneous, Doctor!" the nurse who'd been ventilating him relievedly declared and continued to assist his now _labored_ breathing.

Upon hearing this latest bit of good news, Brice chanced a glance at Gage.

Inhaling all that pure oxygen had done wonders for John's appearance. His skin was no longer such a deep hue of blue, so he didn't look quite so…well…_dead_.

Tyler turned to the other nurse. "All right, Fran, go find out if Dr. Herron and Dr. O'Neil need anymore help with that creep's 'other' victims. Oh…and see if you can do something about those damn alarms, would you?"

"Right away, Doctor!"

The doctor addressed the paramedic next. "Craig, can you take over for Nancy?"

Brice nodded and immediately took over Gage's oxygen management.

"Nance, draw some blood and then get it to the lab—right away! I want a complete work-up, blood gases, cardiac enzymes—the works!"

Nance nodded and went to work. She took the requested samples and quickly left the room.

Tyler crossed over to the wall phone and began making calls. He ordered someone to summon both the ER's and the ICU's next shifts in to work. He placed a page for Dr. Kurtz and Dr. Gerard, and reserved an O.R., just in case.

* * *

The doctor completed his phone calls and then crossed back over to give their recently revived patient a thorough medical examination. "I don't suppose you could stick around for awhile?" he inquired of the vertical paramedic. "We're a little short-handed at the moment."

"I'll stay as long as you need me," Brice quickly came back.

The paramedic was staring directly at his fellow fireman's still form as he spoke.

So Tyler couldn't tell if Craig was addressing him…or Gage.

Dave Bellingham cautiously poked his head into ICU's Room **604**. "You okay, Brice?"

Brice nodded and motioned him into the room. "You can put us Code 8, here at Rampart. We're going to be assisting with an emergency shortage of hospital personnel."

After seeing the four unconscious nurses, Dave was so relieved to find his partner in one healthy piece, that he was willing to curb his curiosity—for the moment. "That's nice." He raised the HT and thumbed its call button.

"Yes it is!" Tyler heartily agreed.

* * *

"Take over ventilations for me," Craig requested, once the call to HQ had been made. "So I can get a set of vitals." The ambu-bag was transferred into Bellingham's hands. "He's breathing on his own. He just needs a little assistance."

Dave nodded and took over 'assisted' ventilations.

Brice began gathering vital signs.

Everybody jerked, startled, as the head of hospital security suddenly burst into the room with his gun drawn.

"Everything under control in here?" the security guard anxiously inquired.

"No, Mr. Storey," Tyler smartly replied. "Everything is _not_ under control in here. But we're working on it…"

Mr. Storey lowered his weapon and his gaze. His wide eyes moved from the bloody pillow at his feet…to the crash cart…and then over to the motionless body. "What happened?"

"Oh-oh, nothing much," Tyler told him. "Someone just waltzed in here and suffocated this critically injured patient as he was lying heavily sedated in his hospital bed." The physician glanced up from his examination. "I don't suppose you caught the creep that did it?"

The head of hospital security quickly regained his composure. "What did he look like? Did anybody get a good look at him?"

"The four nurses who were on duty in this ward were all knocked out cold," the doctor regrettably replied. "It may be some time before they'll be feeling up to answering any questions. And he was long gone, by the time I got here."

Storey turned to Brice.

"I saw him," Craig confessed. "But I'm afraid I didn't get a very good look at him. He had his back to me most of the time. All I actually saw were the backs of his head and his coveralls."

Storey stiffened. "You say he was wearing _coveralls_?"

Brice nodded. "Bright blue…with a large, embroidered emblem sewn on the back. The emblem was white and it had 'Shaefer Vending, Inc.' printed across the center of it in big blue letters. I'm guessing he's already shed the coveralls, though. So you might try just looking for any suspicious acting man about 5'10" or 5'11", with a medium build and dark brown, shoulder-length hair. Though he may have been wearing a wig and phony beard, as well. Like I said, I didn't get a very good look at him—from the front."

The guard unclipped a handy-talky from his gunbelt and passed the assailant's description on to the rest of his security team.

"Don't send everyone off looking for the suspect," Tyler urged. "I want someone posted outside this door—in case that guy decides to go for a _third_ try!"

"Bu-ut," the head of hospital security was completely confused, "I thought you just said he was _dead_?"

Tyler exchanged a solemn glance with Brice. "He **was**!"

Mr. Storey gave both medical men—and their sophisticated-looking crash cart contraption—deeply respectful stares. Then he re-thumbed the call button on his handheld radio. "Kelsey! I want you and Branoff to report to ICU Room **604**, on the double!"

Tyler swapped glances with Brice again. "Better late than never," he grumbled and returned to his medical exam.

* * *

Roy DeSoto drove up to Rampart General Hospital and parked in the lot, directly across from the entrance to Emergency Receiving.

A police squad car pulled up and parked alongside of him.

Roy stared at the patrol car's flashing dome lights, and figured he was going to be getting a speeding ticket. When the vehicle's two occupants exited and began jogging towards the ER's doors, he went racing after them. "What's goin' on?"

"We don't know _what_, yet!" one of the officers confessed. "We just know _where_! **ICU**! Do you work here? Can you tell us the quickest way to get there?"

"I can _show_ you the way! I was just heading up there, myself!" the fireman informed them and fought back the fear that was now gripping his gut. "I'm a paramedic with the Los Angeles County Fire Department. My partner's in Room **604," **he went on to breathlessly explain, as the three of them entered the ER at a run.

* * *

The two officers followed their escort out of the elevator and onto the sixth floor's ICU Ward.

Dr. O'Neil was standing in the open doorway to the Visitors' Lounge. He spotted the policemen and pointed down the corridor. "Room **604**!"

Fear tightened its grip on Roy's gut. One of the police officers gripped his right arm and he was pulled to stop.

"You'd better stay here, til we see what we've got!" the officer ordered. Then he and his partner drew their revolvers and cautiously proceeded down the corridor—minus their _police escort_.

DeSoto exhaled an exasperated gasp and glanced over at the ER doc, who was now kneeling beside one of the three barely moving nurses lying on the soggy floor of the lounge. "They gonna be okay?" he anxiously inquired and crossed over to the room, to see if he could offer some assistance.

O'Neil saw DeSoto's terror-stricken expression and felt obligated to set the paramedic's understandably troubled mind at ease. "They're okay—and **he**'s okay. At least, for now. Craig Brice ran the guy off and they got his heart going again. How on earth did _you_ get here so fast? Did somebody call you about it?"

The paramedic's mouth dropped open and he staggered back a step or two. '_Got his heart going again_?' Roy mentally repeated and managed a numb nod. "A friend," he mysteriously replied and went running down the hall toward Room **604**—and his 'friend'.

* * *

"It's okay!" one of the cops told the two guards who were denying DeSoto access to the room. "He's with us!"

The two hospital security men, who were now guarding the door to **604**, stepped aside and allowed the breathless blond guy to enter.

* * *

Brice was keeping the palm of his right hand upon their patient's heaving chest and his gaze fixed upon the dial of the watch on his left wrist. "Respirations are becoming more rapid, shallow and irregular," he informed the only physician in the room.

The doctor, who now had his eyes re-glued to the cardiac monitor, cursed beneath his breath. "What's the rate?"

"32."

Roy crossed quietly over to his unconscious friend and stood silently at his side.

Tyler took his eyes away from the monitor screen for a moment to see who had just entered the room. "I don't know how _you_ managed to get here so soon, but you couldn't have picked a _better_ time to show up!" he truthfully told John Gage's partner. "What? Did you get a call from someone here at the hospital?"

"You might say that," Roy solemnly replied. The paramedic placed his right hand over his partner's. "I'm here, Johnny. I got here just as soon as I could…"

The people within earshot of the fireman's quiet comment arched their eyebrows. Well, all _vertical _listeners, that is.

The rapid, erratic '_beeping_' that was coming from the patient's cardiac monitor gradually began to slow and grow more regular and rhythmic.

"Respiration rate is down to 24," Craig commented and exchanged an anxious glance with the doctor. It was too soon to tell if the sudden, drastic changes were for the _better_…or for the _worse_.

"Better get the cart ready," the doctor decided. "Just in case…"

Brice nodded and started preparing for another possible _full arrest_.

All eyes suddenly riveted upon the hospital bed, as the body in it began to toss and turn.

Tyler cursed again. Those two large doses of epinephrine were obviously overriding the patient's sedatives.

Gage began gagging on his airway and it was expertly removed. The patient exhaled a rather pitiful, deep-throated moan and then started groaning. One low groan with each labored exhalation—18 groans per minute.

DeSoto cradled his partner's injured head in his hands and prevented him from tossing it from side to side. "Johnny, I need you to lie _very_ **still** for me. Okay?"

Gage responded to the request and immediately stopped struggling.

He didn't stop groaning, however and Roy gave Tyler a rather desperate, pleading glance.

The doctor was about to prescribe something for pain, when two of his colleagues came charging into the room. Ben knew Kurtz would come. Paul always stuck close to the hospital for the first 48 hours following a 'traumatic brain injury' patient's surgery. Fortunately, Lee Gerard had done likewise.

"Okay, someone fill me in!" Dr. Kurtz requested and quickly assumed a position directly across from one of his groaning patient's 'brothers'. The surgeon stared down at his distraught patient in disbelief. The young man's surgical dressing was soaked with blood! "**What the **_**hell**_** happened?**" he angrily demanded. "**Where**'s his _drainage tube_? **Why** isn't he _sedated_?"

"A man came in here, stuck a pillow over his face and kept it there until he went into full arrest," Craig unthinkingly answered. "We counter-shocked three times and were finally able to get a conversion."

DeSoto's hands immediately shifted to Gage's shoulders, as the patient suddenly attempted to sit bolt upright in his hospital bed.

Apparently, his _partner's_ voice was **not** the _only_ voice that John Gage was capable of hearing.

"**Relax, Johnny! Relax!**" Roy urged, and his alarmed friend obediently settled back down on his bed. DeSoto gave Brice a 'Way to go!' glare.

The paramedic appeared appropriately apologetic. "Sorry. I forgot _he_ could be listening…"

Kurtz regained his composure—somewhat. "What are his vitals _no-ow_?"

Tyler silently passed the pissed off surgeon their alert patient's medical chart.

Lee Gerard read over his colleague's shoulder. "I'm gonna go scrub," he whispered into his associate's ear. "I'll see you in the O.R."

Kurtz nodded and directed his gaze to the guy who was still firmly gripping his still groaning patient's shoulders. The bond between the two men was apparent, as well as the _sedative effect_ the blond fireman's presence seemed to have on his recently revived patient. "If you would care to accompany your 'brother' into surgery, you certainly won't get any objections from me…"

"I most certainly _would_!" Roy's eyes glistened and he gave Johnny's understanding surgeon a look of undying gratitude. "Thank you."

Paul flashed the fireman a sympathetic smile. "Thank _you-ou_!" That said, the surgeon turned and hurried off to scrub.

There was something terribly scary about a world where people went around trying to **kill** _firemen_.

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 22

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Anesthesiologist Alan Doherty listened, in stunned silence, as Paul Kurtz 'filled him in' on their surgical patient's current physical condition.

The physician finished his grim briefing.

Doherty gazed at the doctor in total disbelief. "His lungs have already been compromised…he was just in complete respiratory and cardiac arrest…his system has been pumped full of sedatives and adrenaline…This patient is **not** a prime candidate for general anesthesia!"

"Agreed!" the surgeon snapped back. "But we don't really _have_ a choice!" They needed to get back in there and repair these latest damages, and, in order to do that, the patient would _have_ to be placed under anesthesia. "We'll work as quickly as we can!" Kurtz compromised.

Doherty's shoulders sagged in resignation.

The OR's doors flew open and a hospital bed was guided into the room. The bed's groaning occupant was promptly transferred to the operating table.

The anesthesiologist heard the groans and sighed in relief. At least the patient hadn't been pumped full of painkillers. "_Who-o_ are _you-ou_?" Alan asked the surgically-garbed blond guy standing at the groaning young man's side.

"His 'brother'," Kurtz replied. "I didn't want to push anymore drugs into him. So I told him he could accompany the patient…to keep him calm."

Doherty accepted the doctor's explanation. "Better keep it short!" he advised, following a thorough examination of the groaning guy's lungs and vital signs.

All monitors and tubes were reconnected.

Alan reluctantly administered the anesthetic into their patient's IV port.

The groaning mercifully stopped the moment the patient slipped under.

Doherty stared directly at the guy's 'brother' and pointed to the doors. "_Shoo!_"

Roy turned to John's surgeon, curious to see if the grumpy guy had the authority to order him out of the room.

Kurtz turned to the adamant anesthesiologist and pleaded the vertical fireman's case. "I really think you should let him stay, Alan…"

But Doherty didn't budge. "He's in my way!" he determined, and expertly reinserted their patient's missing trach' tube.

The surgeon gave the fireman's 'brother' a sympathetic glance…and a helpless shrug.

DeSoto gave his partner's right hand a reassuring squeeze…and obligingly left the room.

Alan's eyes widened in alarm, as their surgical patient's previously steady respiration and heart rates suddenly—and quite dramatically—increased! He exchanged anxious glances with the two masked doctors and then proceeded to procure a fresh set of vitals.

The patient's pulse and BP had also risen rather alarmingly.

It was just a co-incidence! The guy was _unconscious_, for cryin' out loud! How could he possibly tell that his brother had just been escorted out of the OR?

Doherty glanced at the waiting surgeons again and then aimed his troubled gaze toward their two surgical assistants. "Somebody wanna go bring that blond guy back in here?"

One the RNs nodded and left the room.

Kurtz didn't even give the anesthesiologist so much as an 'I tried to tell you' glance. The surgeon simply smiled—behind his mask.

The OR's doors swished open and 'that blond guy' was ushered back up to the operating table.

The paramedic promptly placed his right hand over his unconscious friend's blue diamond stamped appendage.

Much to Doherty's consternation, their surgical patient's condition instantly started to stabilize. So-o…it wasn't just a co-incidence, after all. 'But_ ho-ow_…?' He managed an exasperated gasp and then, begrudgingly, gave the 'go ahead'.

Kurtz nodded to Gerard, and the two surgeons immediately went to work.

* * *

William Jenner ended his second 'urgent' phone call with Chief Robert Brevik, in as many days. "There was another attempt made on John's life last night—er, I should say, earlier this morning," the Fire Department Head informed his worried wife. "It seems someone just strolled into his hospital room—bold as brass—and suffocated him as he slept. The doctors managed to get his heart going again. But they had to take him back into surgery. I'm going to the hospital. He may not even be alive, by the time I get there," he finished, bitterly.

Martha Jenner made no comment, nor any attempt to stop him.

* * *

Two hours later, there was a knock on the Jenner's back door.

Martha got up from their breakfast counter, to answer it. "Good morning, Clara darling," she greeted her friend and next door neighbor, and guided the woman into her kitchen. "And Happy New Year!"

"Good morning, Martha! Good morning! And a very Happy New Year to you, too!" Clara cheerfully exclaimed. "Where's Bill?" she inquired, as her search of the kitchen and dining areas came up empty.

"He…uhhh…had some urgent business to attend to."

Clara was confused. "Wha-at? On a _Sunday_?" A look of dawning understanding suddenly came over her. "Oh-oh. Something to do with that dreadful shooting yesterday. Right?"

Martha poured her pal a cup of steaming black coffee and reluctantly nodded.

"Tell me, why would anyone ever want to _shoot_ a fireman? I mean, a policeman, maybe…but _not_ a fireman! I tell you, the whole world is going crazy!" Clara declared in one lo-ong breath. "Still," the woman continued, when she got her 'second wind', "if a fireman had to be shot, it's just as well it was _that_ young man. He has no wife and kids, you know. At least, that's what the papers say. But, can you imagine if he'd a' been married? Some poor woman almost losing her husband like that? Or, some poor kids almost having to grow up without a father? And all because some 'sicko' decides to **shoot** a _fireman_! I mean, as if the damn job isn't dangerous enough, as it is!"

Martha heaved a heavy sigh and sank back down onto her stool. She could very well imagine that! That 'poor woman' could have been Bill's niece!

* * *

Craig approached Paul Kurtz and Lee Gerard, as the two doctors came limping stiffly out of the OR, sliding their surgical garb off.

"We stopped the hemorrhaging—again, got his drainage reestablished, and the fracture repaired," Kurtz informed the worried fireman. "His condition—for the moment—is stable." The surgeon saw that his audience was only the slightest bit relieved and realized the guy was still waiting—er, still hoping for some assurance that his 'brother' was gonna make it. The doctor exhaled an exhausted sigh and stood there, wishing he could make such an assurance. But he couldn't. Not this time. "I _can_ assure you that he will be getting the best care possible, and that we're going to be doing everything we possibly can for him. Right now, I'm afraid it's all just a matter of waiting…to see how well he responds to this latest surgery. He's in good hands. And, the longer your brother's condition remains stable, the greater the odds are in his favor." The doctor suddenly noticed that the fireman looked about as beat on his feet as he was feeling. "Leave a number where you can be reached, and then go get some rest. Waiting can take a whole lot out of you."

Brice gave the surgeon an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Doctor."

Both doctors smiled and nodded and started walking off down the hall, heading for the elevators.

The doors to the OR opened once more. Two surgically garbed people locked them in position and then turned back to help guide a gurney out into the corridor.

Brice stepped quickly up to the motionless figure on the stretcher. "Hang in there, John!" he quietly urged.

"Don't worry, Craig," a very familiar voice came back. "**I** intend to stick around and _see to it_ that **he** sticks around."

Craig recognized the blue eyes behind the surgical mask. They belonged to John's partner.

Roy was still standing at their brother's side, still holding onto his partner's right appendage.

Brice turned back to Gage. "Dr. Kurtz was right. You **are** in _good_ hands…"

* * *

Following a rather lengthy briefing at headquarters, Chief Jenner and his aide, Chief Brevik, finally entered Rampart General's Emergency Receiving.

Two men left their seats in the ER's waiting room and stepped up to them.

"Chief, am I glad you're here!" Rudy Dalbert began. "Something important's just come up—"

"—And Dr. Brackett says we can use his office to discuss it," LAPD's Lieutenant Eugene McCord interrupted.

The four men turned and hurried off down the hall, in the direction of the doctor's office.

**TBC**


	23. Chapter 23

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Later that same morning…

Roy glanced up, as the door to ICU's Room 604 suddenly flew open.

Nurse Cheryl Norquist came rushing in, closely followed by his Captain.

"How is he?" the concerned pair simultaneously inquired.

"He-e's hangin' in there," Roy solemnly replied and greeted them both with a forced smile. "They're keeping him heavily sedated," he continued, seeing they were staring rather anxiously down at his perfectly still—and silent—partner. "But I know he knows I'm here," he added and gave his sedated friend's warm hand a reassuring squeeze.

The pair gave the vertical paramedic grateful glances and some forced smiles of their own.

But then Cheryl's worried frown returned and deepened. "There's a policeman on the other side of that door. So they must feel John's still in danger…"

Roy glanced sadly and solemnly down at his feverish friend and nodded.

"Dr. Kurtz tells me that you are considered an essential cog in the recovery machinery around here," his Captain quietly reported. "So I've requested a special leave of absence for you."

"Thanks, Cap!"

Hank stared down at his critically injured crewman—and friend—in complete and utter disbelief. "Do they really feel someone may try to **kill** him—_again_?"

"And _again_," someone suddenly said.

The three of them turned in that new voice's direction.

William Jenner was standing in the room's open doorway. "Until they either _give up_…or finally _get it right_," the Fire Department's Head Honcho added, a bit morbidly, and stepped the rest of the way into the hospital room. "Request granted!" he informed John's Captain. Then his solemn gaze shifted to Gage's partner. "DeSoto, isn't it?"

Roy nodded.

"You can hang around here for just as long as you like!" Jenner assured him.

DeSoto's gloom-filled face brightened—considerably. "Thank you, Sir!" he told the chief Chief. Then he turned to the nurse. "Looks like you won't have to relieve me, after all."

"I'll come by later on this afternoon, then. That way, you'll be able to go home for a few hours and spend some time with your 'other' family," Cheryl proposed, sounding extremely pleased with her plan. The pretty woman's foreboding frown returned. She stepped up to the unconscious young man with the heavily bandaged head, and placed her right appendage over his free hand. "Take care, John…and I'll see you a little later," she promised in a whisper. "If either of you needs me," she reminded the fireman's partner, "don't hesitate to call!"

Roy flashed the woman a warm, grateful smile and gave her another nod.

The nurse gave the horizontal paramedic one last, lo-ong parting glance—and his feverish hand a final squeeze—before reluctantly leaving the room.

Hank turned to their Supreme Commander. "Do the police have _any _leads yet, Chief?"

Jenner just stood there, staring solemnly down at the motionless young fireman, lying so perfectly still in his hospital bed—too still.

The un-bandaged portion of the paramedic's face bore a death-like pallor. His respirations were so shallow, they were barely even perceptible. Why, if it weren't for the steady '_beep_' '_beep_' '_beep_' ing of the fireman's cardiac monitor, the Chief would have sworn the young man _was_ dead!

Jenner swallowed hard and finally glanced up.

Both John's Captain and his partner were anxiously awaiting an answer.

"I think I can trust the two of you to be 'discreet'," the Chief reasoned. "But, nothing I tell you must **ever** _leave_ this room!"

The two conscious firemen readily nodded their consent to his terms.

So Jenner proceeded to brief them. "The Fire Marshal's report states that the structure fire, that Gage—and the rest of Station 16—responded to the other night, was caused when someone cut the power to the burglar alarm system, in the building's basement.

Two of the live wires came into contact with one another and started arcing. The 1500-degree heat that was generated by those sparking wires ignited combustible building materials in the wall surrounding the alarm box.

The fire then spread rapidly through the walls. Eventually, the entire east end of the building's basement and first floor became involved.

It was at that point that passing motorists noticed the smoke and reported the fire.

Station 16 was first in. Captain Mason sent his Engine crew—fire fighters Chris Fowler and Curtis Hill—in to begin battling the blaze. He sent his Rescue Squad crew—paramedics Craig Brice and John Gage—in to make a routine sweep of the building.

The police report states that the building is one of many owned by Leevers & Langley, Inc.—which rents office space to a variety of private businesses.

The office John ended up searching—and getting shot in—along with the rest of the offices on the second floor, is currently being leased by a 'Special Investigations' agency, which _specializes_ in _investigating_ cases of insurance claims' fraud.

Mr. Peter Canton, one of the agency's co-owners and operators, claims that several pieces of irreplaceable evidence—crucial to one of the cases his company is currently working on—are now missing. The documents were taken from the same office in which John was shot.

I really can't tell you any more about the case, except that it involved 'special investigations' into a nation-wide arson ring, supposedly being run by an organized crime syndicate, supposedly based somewhere right here, in Los Angeles.

The guy must've been wearing gloves in that office…and when he came here, this morning…because there isn't a print to be lifted anywhere.

However, late last night, the police discovered John's turnout coat and helmet stuffed inside a trash bag. I've been informed that there were several clear sets of prints on both the helmet and the trash bag, and the authorities are running a check on them now—" Jenner stopped speaking, as the door opened and his aide poked his head into the room.

"Excuse me. Chief?" Robert Brevik requested, and motioned with his head for Jenner to join him out in the hall.

"It's okay, Bobby," the Chief assured the secretive gentleman and motioned with his head for Brevik to step into the room. "We can talk in here."

'Bobby' stepped inside and stared cautiously around the hospital room before continuing. "The police just made a positive I.D. on the prints. They belong to a Carl Iverson—an ex 'enforcer' for the 'mob'."

"**Ex** enforcer?" Jenner inquired, sounding as confused as he currently looked.

"Up until just now, Law Enforcement agencies had him filed under 'deceased'," Brevik explained. "Iverson was _supposedly_ killed six months ago, while planting a bomb in Councilman Robert Browning's car. A man—matching Iverson's description—had been seen tampering with something under the vehicle, moments before the explosion. So it was _assumed_ that it was Iverson's charcoaled remains that were found among the wreckage.

The police have that alley—and a four block radius around it—under constant surveillance, and they've all got pictures of the guy, now," he added and passed his boss a photocopy of the killer's image. "If he shows up anywhere near there, the authorities are bound to nab him!"

Jenner glared disgustedly down at the goon's picture. "Have the police released any of these photos to the press yet?"

Brevik shook his head. "They don't want the guy to know that they're on to him. If he **is** in the area they're currently covering, it could spook him."

"But, if he sees he's already been I.D.'ed, then he won't have to kill John to keep _him_ from identifying him," the Chief reasoned.

"The cops already thought of that. They believe Iverson will still want him dead…to keep him from _testifying_. Gage, here, is still the only one who can actually place Iverson in that office. According to the police, the fingerprints on the helmet and trash bag don't prove a thing. Iverson could always say he _found _the coat and helmet lying on the sidewalk, and then decided to toss them out."

"I hadn't thought of tha-at," Jenner glumly confessed. He passed the disgusting photo of the paramedic's assailant on to his partner. "Take good care of him," he gently urged, and then added, a bit more gruffly, "That's an order!"

Roy returned the Chief's forced smile and nodded.

Jenner gave the critically injured fireman—and his crewmates—a final farewell glance, and then left the room with his aide.

"I'm gonna go call the rest a' the guys," Stanley determined and started heading for the exit, "and let them know how he's doing."

DeSoto watched his Captain disappear out the door. The fireman then resumed his vigil at his perfectly still partner's side. He gave John's limp hand another reassuring squeeze.

Gage gripped his partner's appendage back.

Roy looked extremely pleased—and not the least bit surprised. "I **knew** you **knew** I was here!" he smugly stated and gave his friend's hot hand another slight squeeze.

Again, John acknowledged his friend's grip with a rather feeble—yet definite—_squee-eeze_ of his own.

**TBC**


	24. Chapter 24

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Worried about the young man's steadily rising temperature, Dr. Kurtz had ordered the nurses to begin administering a new combination of powerful antibiotics. The doctor had also reduced the dosage on his traumatic brain injury patient's sedatives.

* * *

In ICU's Room 604, later that fever-filled afternoon…

The gunshot victim's partner was still keeping his vigil.

Roy DeSoto was seated comfortably in a chair beside his _brother's_ hospital bed. There was an open—unbelievably thick—hardcover book in his lap, and he was reading aloud from it. "Chapter Forty-Eight," he continued, following the flip of yet another of the mystery novel's many pages. "Inspector Greenley was not looking forward to returning to Brighton Hall. Especially since Miss Sutherland's tragic—" the paramedic paused, right in mid-sentence, and redirected his gaze, as his partner suddenly gripped his right hand hard—_really_ hard!

ICU nurse, Robin Torris, was in the process of replacing her patient's latest drained IV bag. She heard a distinct change in the quiet, steady '_bleep_'ing coming from the cardiac monitor over her head and glanced up.

The patient's heart rate had just increased—rather dramatically!

Less than an instant later, Mr. Gage began gagging on his airway.

The book went flying, as its reader immediately leapt to his feet. "He-ey…take it easy, Johnny…" Roy calmly requested, when his feverish friend began tossing his heavily bandaged head rather frantically from side to side. The paramedic cradled his panicking partner's hot face in his cool hands and did his level best to keep him from thrashing about.

The RN carefully pulled the trach' tube from her choking patient's throat. After pressing the room's 'call' button, and giving John's chart a quick glance, she turned toward the med' stand and proceeded to prepare a hypodermic syringe.

With no trach' tube left to battle, DeSoto's distraught buddy calmed down—considerably.

Roy's hands slid down to grip his hurting friend's shoulders.

The moment his airway was removed, Gage had begun groaning. Emitting one heart-wrenching groan with each labored, ragged breath.

Roy swallowed hard and kept a comforting, and calming, grip on his pained partner.

The nurse tapped the air bubbles from her fully loaded syringe. Then she tossed the bed sheets back and promptly emptied the hypo into the hurting young man's left thigh. With the pain med' now on board, the woman set about reestablishing her pneumonia patient's supply of much needed O2. Once Mr. Gage's oxygen mask was in place, and functioning properly, Nurse Torris began gathering a fresh set of vital signs.

Mr. Gage's muffled groans gradually turned to muffled moans. Within a matter of minutes, the patient had ceased making _any_ sounds, at all. Finally, the fireman's feverish head rolled limply to the left and he was perfectly—peacefully—still, once more.

'Too still,' Mr. DeSoto silently—and sadly—realized.

Normally, John Gage _exuded_ energy. It was most disturbing, not to mention downright **un**natural, to see his—usually in perpetual motion—partner remain so _still_ for so _long_.

Roy heard footsteps coming down the corridor and looked up in time to see Johnny's surgeon, Dr. Brackett, and two other nurses, step through the room's guarded doorway.

Miss Torris pulled the tips of her stethoscope from her ears. "He came to about five minutes ago and started gagging," she informed the new arrivals. "I removed the airway and administered his prescribed pain med'. The patient is now resting comfortably. He was in sinus tach', but his vitals have now stabilized and his heart rate has returned to normal."

The two physicians stared up at their critical patient's cardiac monitor, looking tremendously relieved.

Paul placed the back of his right hand against the fireman's left cheek and cursed beneath his breath. "He's _still_ burning up!"

The RN nodded. "His temp' remains 103.4 degrees, Doctor."

Kurtz cursed again and turned to his colleague. "Remember those 'complications' we've been 'barring'?"

"It takes time, Paul," Brackett reminded his bitter associate. "It's only been four hours. The new drug combo just hasn't had a chance to _kick in_, yet."

The surgeon exhaled a gasp of complete exasperation and then had a long—and thorough—listen to the fireman's lungs. After all that this poor guy had already been through, he sure didn't need to have to deal with a particularly stubborn bout of aspiration pneumonia! Kurtz swore again, this time, aloud. The young man's lungs remained severely congested. If the latest combination of antibiotics didn't 'kick in' pretty damn quick, the doctor was concerned that his patient could be 'cashing it in'—pretty damn quick! Paul pulled a metal clipboard from a hook at the foot of the bed. After discussing various treatment options with his equally concerned colleague, the doctor jotted down a few more changes to John's medical orders. Kurtz replaced the chart and turned his attention to the exhausted looking guy that was keeping a firm grip on his feverish—but no longer pained—patient's hand. "I don't suppose I could convince _you_ to go home and get some sleep?"

DeSoto lifted his solemn gaze, from his friend's impassive face, to the physician who had just posed the question. "No. No-o, I don't suppose you could."

Both doctors flashed the determined fireman sympathetic smiles.

Kurtz exhaled an exhausted sigh himself, and then he and Brackett reluctantly exited the hospital room.

DeSoto pulled his partner's arm straight up and slowly began to rotate it. Besides reading to his bed-ridden buddy, Roy had begun exercising Johnny's inactive arms and legs for him, in the hope that he wouldn't be so stiff and sore, once he was brought out of his heavy sedation. The paramedic had watched the physical therapist stretch his motionless pal's limp limbs long enough to know exactly how it should be done.

* * *

John Gage found himself seated at a large, round, wooden card table, in a gloomy, candlelit room.

Seated around the table with him, were his four stuntmen friends.

He saw that his buddies were all staring down at the center of the table…at a Colt .45 pistol.

Nobody said a word. It was like they were all in some kind a' hypnotic trance, or something.

John continued to watch, as Gary Woolen gradually reached out and picked up the gun.

Gary slowly inserted a .45 caliber cartridge into one of the slots in the revolver's rotating chamber. He gave the gun's chamber a spin. Then he cocked its hammer and raised its barrel to his right temple.

John watched, in horror, as his friend's finger began to tighten on the trigger. His jaw dropped open, to protest. But he couldn't make any words come out.

His friend's finger continued to squeeze the weapon's trigger.

The horrified fireman shut his eyes—tightly—and held his breath. John jerked, as the gun's hammer hit the empty chamber with a loud, metalic '_click_'. He exhaled an audible sigh of relief and slowly raised his eyes' lids.

Gary released a relieved sigh himself, before passing the pistol on to Gordy.

Gordon LaSalle spun the Colt's chamber, recocked its hammer, and then placed the tip of its barrel against his right temple.

As Gordy's finger started to squeeze the pistol's trigger, no one spoke a word—or made any attempt to stop him.

Gage shut his eyes tightly and jerked again, at the loud '_click_' of the weapon's hammer striking another empty chamber. The fireman released his held breath and forced his eyes back open.

Gordy looked tremendously relieved and passed the pistol on to Denny.

Dennis Rygel went through the same insane ritual…and then passed the gun to Phil.

Gage clamped his lids down over his eyes and placed his hands over his ears. But he couldn't block out the sickening sound of that loud, metalic '_click_'. His already elevated blood pressure shot through the roof and his already rapid respiration rate increased—considerably. The paramedic's hands began to tremble. His body went rigid and he broke into a cold sweat. John opened his eyes just in time to see Phillip Lucas hand the weapon over to Rog—. The fireman's racing heart skipped a few beats.

Instead of his stuntman friend, Roger Eavens, a stranger was now seated beside him, and, instead of raising the gun's barrel to his own temple, the man turned and pointed it right at the petrified paramedic's head.

John Gage stopped breathing.

* * *

Roy was right in the middle of a knee bend. Suddenly, Johnny's limp left leg went rigid on him. Moments later, the cardiac monitor's steady, rhythmic '_bleep_'ing turned totally chaotic. He gave the stiff leg's owner an anxious glance and was alarmed to find that—besides going completely rigid—it seemed his sedated buddy had also ceased to breathe.

DeSoto immediately shifted, from 'physical therapist', into full _paramedic_ mode. He pinched his partner's nostrils shut and then began to breathe for him.

**TBC**


	25. Chapter 25

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Roy was in the process of forcing another life-giving breath of air into his completely rigid friend's non-functioning lungs.

His non-breathing buddy suddenly inhaled sharply and sat bolt upright in his hospital bed, knocking DeSoto aside.

Roy regained his balance and immediately stepped back up to stand beside the bed. He gripped John Gage's trembling shoulders and promptly placed his smiling face in his feverish friend's line of sight. "Hey…I-It's okay. You're gonna be _all right_."

It took a moment or two for Johnny's terror-filled eyes to focus. A look of recognition, closely followed by tremendous relief, replaced the fear and delirium—right before his plummeting blood pressure caused him to pass out.

Roy pulled his collapsing partner into his arms. His blurring blue eyes closed. "You're gonna be _all right_," he repeated in a somewhat shaky whisper. "I've _never_ lied to you, Johnny," the paramedic quickly continued. "And I'd appreciate it, if you could do your part…to _keep_ it that way." That said—er, whispered, he reluctantly ended his reassuring hug and gently began easing his now peacefully breathing buddy back down onto his hospital bed.

* * *

The cop guarding the door to ICU's Room 604 was caught completely 'off-guard' by the crowd of people coming down the corridor towards him.

They seemed to be on a rather _urgent_ mission…of some sort.

So he stepped aside and allowed them—and their rolling medical equipment—to pass, un-impinged.

* * *

Roy had no sooner got his partner's heavily bandaged head re-situated on his pillow, and his O2 mask back in place, when an onslaught of hospital personnel came spilling into the room. "I was going through some range of motion exercises with him," he informed the two physicians in charge of the rescue party. "All of a sudden, he stiffened right up—and then _stopped_ breathing. Following a dozen, or so, breaths, he came two for a few seconds. When he sat up in the bed, his BP must've bottomed out. Respirations are still spontaneous," he relievedly added, and reluctantly stepped out of the way.

The medical team went to work.

DeSoto listened, as the doctors discussed probable causes for the patient's sudden respiratory arrest. 'Anaphylactic shock isn't the only shock someone can suffer from,' he silently pointed out. 'Besides, I had an excellent air exchange, while administering AR.'

The doctors continued their debate.

Kurtz suspected a delayed reaction to the new antibiotics.

Brackett was leaning more towards a combination of wet lungs and too many sedatives.

Roy recalled the terrified look in his friend's feverish eyes. Dare he mention his 'traumatic shock' theory? Dare he not! "I think something _scared_ him," he bravely blurted out, "…to death," he solemnly tacked on, and tried to hide.

The two doctors traded thoughtful glances, and then turned to the vertical—and suddenly very vocal—fireman.

"What makes you think _that_, Roy?" Brackett wondered.

"Because there was no indication of any respiratory distress. His whole body just suddenly went _completely rigid_," Roy replied. "A-and…because his eyes had the same look in them that they had a few days ago…when we suddenly realized the room we were searching was about to 'flashover' on us."

The physicians exchanged thoughtful glances again.

The signs certainly did point to the paramedic being right about a psychological, rather than physiological cause for the patient's sudden respiratory arrest.

Paul Kurtz exhaled an exasperated sigh. Any one—or all three—could've been the probable cause!

Ideally, the surgeon would have liked to keep this particular patient in a drug-induced coma for another four or five days—at the very least. The pneumonia, and resultant depressed respiration rate, had already forced him to cut waaaaay back on the barbiturates. Now, just to be on the safe side, it appeared he would have to cut them out—entirely.

One of John's nurses read the new order and frowned. "What are we supposed to do if the patient becomes agitated?

Kurtz smiled down at his patient's 'brother'. "We'll just have to rely on Fireman DeSoto, here, to keep him sedated. His presence seems to have a _soothing_ effect on him."

Fireman DeSoto flashed both doctors a bashful smile. Then his grin gradually vanished and his concerned gaze returned to Fireman Gage's impassive face. "He's always had _just the opposite_ effect on me."

His audience couldn't help but grin.

* * *

Roy swallowed hard and glanced up from the book in his lap. There was a Styrofoam cup filled with ice water setting on the medicine stand beside him. He took a sip, and then gave one of the mystery novel's many pages another flip. "Colonel Buford dropped the bloody knife and stepped back from Lawry's bod—" The reader heard a feeble groan and immediately set his book aside. He then sprang to his feet and pressed the room's call button.

* * *

Roy breathed a silent sigh of relief, as his feverish friend's eyes finally fluttered open, but then exhaled an exasperated gasp, as it seemed to be taking forever for them to actually focus.

* * *

The cobwebs gradually cleared from John Gage's feverish head and the fuzziness finally cleared from his vision. He saw his friend's familiar blue eyes smiling down at him. The paramedic didn't suppose everybody's eyes could 'smile'. But his partner's sure could. John also noted the deep lines of fatigue on his buddy's face. His fireman friend looked like he'd just finished pulling a triple shift—in a hundred-degree heatwave!

DeSoto pulled the oxygen mask down and pressed an ice chunk up to his partner's non-moving mouth.

The patient gave his thoughtful 'nurse' a look of undying gratitude, as the frozen object immediately began to melt and lubricate his parched lips. "You-ou…" he managed to croak, and made a valiant attempt to clear his hoarse throat. Gage grimaced. It was astounding the amount of pain such a pitiful little cough was capable of producing. He forced his tightly clamped eyes back open and tried again to communicate. "You look…about like how…I-I feel."

Roy's mouth joined his already 'smiling' eyes. "I'm rea-eal _sorry_ to hear that."

A small smile played upon his partner's pursed lips. Johnny swallowed hard and winced. "Sorry…for who?" he wondered in a hoarse whisper. "Me-e?…Or you-ou?"

"Both," Roy teased, but then the smiles disappeared from his entire face. He'd caught the grimace and the wince, and he could clearly see the pain in his hurting friend's half-open eyes. He pressed another ice chunk up to his partner's parched, pursed lips and shot an anxious glance toward the room's open doorway—the room's _empty_ open doorway. Where was that nurse?

Almost as if on cue, an RN came scurrying into 604, carrying a loaded syringe. The woman whipped the bed sheets back and emptied the hypo into Johnny's left thigh.

Gage groaned and shut is eyes—rather tightly. "Ro-oy?"

"Yeah, Johnny?"

"Could you…open a window…or somethin'?…It's _really_…**hot**…in…here."

Roy glanced around the windowless room. "Sh-Sh-Shush. Sleep now," he suggested, and slipped the O2 mask back into place. "There'll be plenty of time for talking _later_." His smiles returned, as his friend followed his advice and drifted off into blissful—pain-free—slumber.

* * *

Later that same evening, in ICU's Room 604…

Roy DeSoto was sleeping, slumped in a chair beside his partner's hospital bed. His blond head was resting on his folded left arm and his right hand was resting on his feverish friend's right hand—er, correction, his no-longer-feverish friend's right hand. The paramedic's eyes snapped open and he straightened stiffly up in his seat. He picked the hand beneath his up. His partner's limp appendage was now 'cool' to the touch.

A nasal canula had replaced the patient's oxygen mask.

DeSoto placed the back of his left hand against Gage's right cheek. It, too, felt considerably cooler.

One of the ICU's RNs was busy taking his partner's vital signs.

Roy waited for the woman to remove the tips of her stethoscope from her ears before speaking. "His fever's broken!"

Nurse Lindbrook recorded her latest findings. Then she glanced up from her patient's medical chart and grinned. "About a half an hour ago. He's breathing a whole lot easier, and his vitals have been steadily improving, too." She hung the metal clipboard back onto the hook on the end of the hospital bed. "Dr. Kurtz finally went home. So he must figure the worst is over. You could probably go get some _proper_ rest yourself now…" she hinted.

"I wanna be here for him, when he finally wakes up."

"That may not be for some time ye—" the nurse's comment was interrupted by a pitiful groan.

Gage groaned again and then began to moan.

Roy glanced down and was surprised to find that Johnny's eyes were wide open. He jumped up out of his seat and gripped his groaning friend's shoulders.

"Hold him still!" the RN requested and started heading for the door. "I'll go get his pain meds!"

John Gage's bruised brain began registering information again. His nose was picking up the distinct odor of disinfectant—mingled with freshly starched linens. Suddenly, he was aware of his surroundings: he was in a hospital…Rampart General, in all likelihood. Which, as gawd-awful as he was currently feeling, probably wasn't such a bad surrounding to find himself in. His blurred vision gradually focused in on the shiny grey object that was mounted on the ceiling, directly above his bed. It was a closed-circuit television camera. He wasn't just _at_ Rampart, he was in the hospital's Intensive Care Unit! The patient grimaced and groaned again, in both pain and frustration.

Roy saw his friend frowning up at the ceiling and realized that he must've finally figured out that he was in **ICU**—or, as his partner preferred to call it: **I See You**.

Johnny had renamed the hospital ward '**I See You**', on account a' all the cameras and the constant video surveillance.

DeSoto promptly placed another chunk of ice upon his pained partner's parched lips.

"Guess…Guess I…must a' come…pretty close…ta…buyin' it…huh."

'You have no idea,' Roy silently replied.

"Fire?" Johnny inquired, and gazed up at his partner through pain-filled eyes.

DeSoto determined that he wouldn't dodge his friend's questions—entirely. He would merely answer them in his own 'indirect' way. "My ass is sore—from sitting for so long. What's paining you?"

Johnny closed his eyes, and then lay there, reluctantly taking inventory. "Hurts ta think…hurts ta swallow…hurts ta breathe."

DeSoto nodded understandably. "It hurts to think, because you have a depressed skull fracture and a mild concussion. It hurts to swallow, because you've had a trach' tube rammed down your throat, for the better part of a week now. And it hurts to breathe, because you still have a touch of aspiration pneumonia."

Johnny was willing to accept all but the explanation for why it hurt him to breathe. He started to shake his hurting head, but then thought better of it. "Not…my lungs," he announced. "My ribs." He grimaced again and started reaching for his aching right side. "Feels like…someone's been…doin'…chest compressions…on me—" he stopped abruptly, as something suddenly occurred to him. His brown eyes flew back open and immediately filled with dread. "_Has_ someone…been doin'…chest compressions…on me?"

Roy's non-reply told him plenty.

At some point, his heart had stopped beating! 'Da-amn!' He may not have 'bought' the farm, but he'd apparently managed to make a pretty sizeable down payment on it! "Fi-ire?" he re-inquired, curious to hear what had...'killed' him.

"You _could_ say that…"

Gage gave up on his partner's cryptic comment and tried to wrap his bruised brain around something else—something a little less alarming, or confusing. "I been here…almost a week?"

DeSoto nodded.

Johnny suddenly recalled his friend's 'sore ass' comment. "You been sittin' here…the _entire time_?"

"Pretty much."

"You can't afford…to miss…_that_ much…work."

"Actually, I haven't missed _any_ work—at all. I'm on 'special' assignment."

Curious as to what Roy's 'special' assignment could possibly be, Johnny lifted his head a little and had a brief look around. He spotted the police officer standing beside the room's open doorway. "What's **he** doing there?"

"Him? He's on 'special' assignment, too."

Gage gazed up at his evasive friend and gasped in frustration. "What…the hell…happened?

Nurse Linbrook returned just then and saved DeSoto from having to be even more evasive.

John felt something prick his left leg. The pain in his head, throat and chest began to recede...and he…began to float.

"What's up?" Dr. Mike Morton anxiously inquired, as he came rushing into the room.

"His fever broke about thirty-five minutes ago," Roy replied. "He came to, about five minutes ago, complaining of head, throat and chest pains. He's still cognizant of people and his surroundings," he added with a grin.

Morton finished his exam and glanced up. "He's sleeping. And, that is what I expect you to be doing—in whatever time, from now, that it takes for you to travel from here to your home! As of this moment, this room is **off limits** to any—and all—visitors! And it will remain **off limits** for the next 24 to 48 hours! Is that understood?"

DeSoto looked tremendously disappointed. "I'm on 'special' assignment he—"

"—**Is that understood?**" Morton interrupted, speaking a little gruffer—and a whole lot louder.

Roy reluctantly nodded his unwilling acceptance of the determined young doctor's unfair decree.

Mike looked pleasantly surprised. The physician figured the only way John Gage was ever going to be able to get any real rest would be if there was nobody around for him to talk to. He knew how badly Roy wanted to remain in the room, so he wasn't expecting the man's unconditional surrender. "Goo-ood!" He flashed the overly fatigued fireman a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry. Someone will call you, if there's even the slightest change in his condition. And I promise to see to it—personally—that _you_ will be first in line, when he's finally allowed visitors again."

The privileged paramedic gave the good doctor an appreciative smile, which all-too-quickly faded into a worried frown. What if he went into respiratory arrest again? What if that maniac came back? What if—? Roy gave Johnny's limp right hand one last reassuring squeeze…and reluctantly followed Dr. Morton out of the room.

**TBC**


	26. Chapter 26

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

DeSoto managed to take several steps down the ICU corridor, before finally grinding to a halt. The paramedic could count the number of times he'd disobeyed a doctor's direct orders on two fingers. Well, three fingers, _now_, because he'd just gone as far from his friend's room as he was gonna get. "Dr. Morton?"

The physician stopped and turned to face him. "Yes, Roy?"

"First…The instant Joanne heard that I was gonna be on 'special assignment' here, at the hospital, she packed the kids in the car and went to visit her mother. The only 'family' I have—right now—is lying in a bed back there, with a bullet hole in his head. Second…I don't know if you're aware of this, or not. But Gage went into full respiratory arrest earlier this afternoon, and his doctor ordered the nurses to discontinue any—and all—sedatives. Dr. Kurtz 'prescribed' **my** 'company', instead. He's relying on **me** to keep his patient as calm and quiet as possible. So, you see, I'm not _just _a 'visitor'. And, third…I think he's beginning to remember what happened, and I wanna be there for him, when he does."

The young doctor considered the fireman's comments over carefully. "Why didn't you mention any of this earlier?" he wondered and motioned to the open door to Room 604.

"Johnny had just drifted off. I didn't wanna risk disturbing him. He needs all the rest he can possibly get."

Morton regrettably recalled how he had _repeatedly_ raised his voice in the room, and suppressed a smile. "So do **you**!" he stubbornly restated. "Set up a cot in Room 604," he requested of a passing hospital worker.

The orderly nodded and disappeared down the hall.

The physician focused his attention back on the 'beat on his feet' fireman. "As soon as it arrives, I expect **you** to be _in it_!" he sternly decreed, and finally released the smile he'd been suppressing.

Roy flashed the understanding doctor a grateful grin and readily nodded

* * *

.

Speaking of Dr. Kurtz's dozing patient…

John Gage suddenly found himself standing in a back lot of Universal Movie Studios. It was early evening. The fireman was dressed in his civies and he was talking with one of his stuntmen friends, Gary Woolen.

Judging by all the food and drink and the festive look of things, there appeared to be a 'lot' party going on.

John suddenly recalled the occasion.

Gary—and his crew of stuntmen—were celebrating the completion of a film they'd been working on.

"We just spent the last four months on location in the Mojave Desert," Gary informed his fireman friend.

"The _desert_? What was it?" Gage wondered. "A Western?"

"We were shooting a sequel to _Star Wars_," Woolen went on. "I had to stand in for all of Luke Skywalker's heavy action shots." Gary grimaced and flexed his left shoulder. "Ol' Luke had waaaaaay too many heavy action shots in that movie!"

Gage snickered. "Where're you guys off to next?"

"We're gonna be right here in town for awhile, shooting one a' those 'tailored-for-TV' movies. Get a' load a' the title: 'Who's Killing The Stuntmen?'"

"I hope the film doesn't live up to its name!"

"No lie!" Gary agreed. "Yah know, I don't even know _what _it's about. The guy I stand in for gets knocked off in the first five minutes of the movie."

John gave his buddy an insincere look of sympathy.

Several members of Woolen's stuntman crew came strolling up to where the two friends were standing.

"John!" one of them exclaimed and extended a hand. "Good ta see yah again!"

"Gordy," Gage acknowledged. He took and shook the young man's hand. "It's good ta see you guys again, too!"

Three more hands shot out.

John took and shook them, as well. "Roger…Phil…Denny…"

The three young guys that the hands were attached to grinned and nodded. "John," they said, in unison.

"Where you been keepin' yourself?" Gordy LaSalle wondered.

"I've been trying to keep myself out of trouble," the paramedic replied. "I just got back from five very cold days in Seattle, Washington."

Gordy looked curious. "Fire Department business?"

John nodded.

Gordy looked tremendously disappointed. "When you gonna quit that dangerous occupation and come and work at something nice and safe…like us?" he teased.

Everyone within earshot was forced to grin.

Gage grinned and rolled his eyes. "You guys have definitely been out in the desert too long."

Their grins broadened.

"Gordy's right, John," Dennis Rygel admonished. "You should quit playin' fireman and come work with us. This is where the **real** money's at."

The rest of the guys in the group nodded their agreement.

John just smiled. "Thanks for the offer, Denny. But you couldn't get me to do what you guys do—for all the money in the world!"

Gordy looked confused. "What d'yah mean? You already do what we do—for about a tenth of the pay!"

Again, the rest of the guys nodded their agreement.

Gage shook his head. "Unh-uh. No way! There's a world of difference in our work."

"How do you figure?" Gordy inquired. "We all risk our necks. We all play the same game of Russian Roulette with our lives. Only, in our job, we can take the time to minimize the risks. You can't. So, therefore, your job is a lot riskier! And, the longer you work at it, the greater the risk is for you to draw the 'loaded' chamber." LaSalle placed the barrel of an imaginary revolver up to his right temple and squeezed its trigger.

John winced and looked away.

Gary saw that the conversation was getting a little too morbid for a party and decided to try and lighten the mood back up. "John only risks his life for another life," he reminded the members of his crew.

"Like total strangers," Roger Eavens tacked on.

"And old winos," Phillip Lucas lightly added.

"But **never** for _money_," Denny sadly summed up. "Now, what he has against money, I'll never know."

The stuntmen grinned.

The fireman rolled his eyes again. "C'mon, you guys. We all know that you aren't in it for the _money_. You just happen to _love_ taking risks. You're natural born gamblers. And, the greater the stakes, the more 'interesting' the game becomes. The more daring you can make your lives, the more you seem to value them. Now, I admit, I'm as addicted to adrenaline as you are. I mean, I can't picture any of us quitting today, to go sell shoes tomorrow. Right? But, there's a big difference between excitement and risks. And the biggest difference between us is in how we feel about taking risks. I risk my neck because I _have_ to. You guys do it because you _want_ to. And, heck…we're all _happy_, aren't we?"

His stuntmen buddies nodded, thoughtfully.

"Well, that's the only _really important_ thing," Gage turned to his friend Gary and grinned. "Enough philosophizing! This is supposed to be a _party_! Let's eat!"

* * *

John went on to have an enjoyable evening. But he couldn't seem to get the image of his friend's finger—squeezing that imaginary gun's trigger—out of his head.

He kept hearing Denny's words replaying, over and over and over. _"…the greater the risk is for you to draw the 'loaded' chamber…the greater the risk is for you to draw the 'loaded' chamber…the greater the risk is for you to draw the 'loaded' chamber…_"

* * *

The fireman suddenly found himself in an inner office. He set his flashlight and chalk down on the tiny room's tiled floor so he could have his hands free to 'sign'. He straightened back up again and started signing 'fire'.

The deaf guy pulled a handgun from his coat pocket.

Gage watched, in sort a' slow motion, as the barrel of the gun was raised and then carefully aimed—directly at his helmeted head. He wanted to scream, but couldn't get any sound to come out of his gaping mouth. The gun's muzzle flashed and there was a _deafeningly_ LOUD explosion.

* * *

"**NO-O!**" the paramedic pleaded. The sound of his own scream jolted John awake from his nightmare and, once again, he snapped bolt upright in his hospital bed.

**TBC**


	27. Chapter 27

'Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

John's cry also woke his roommate.

Roy was off his cot and at his partner's side in seconds. This time, he was able to get his buddy back into a horizontal position—before his BP could drop completely off the charts and cause him to lose consciousness. He released his traumatized friend's trembling right shoulder just long enough to tug one of the room's back wall lights on. When he looked back down, he saw that Gage's terror-filled eyes were, indeed, still open and focused up at the ceiling.

"That…son-of-a-bitch…_shot_ me," Johnny muttered rather dazedly, once his respirations had returned a little nearer to normal. His hurting head slowly turned in his rescuer's direction and the two of them locked gazes. "Didn't he."

DeSoto's vision blurred and he gave each of his buddy's still slightly trembling shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "Yeah," he shakily replied, in a voice barely above a whisper. "That son-of-a-bitch _shot_ you."

Confusion—mixed with pain—promptly replaced the anger in the gunshot victim's own blurry eyes. "Why-y?"

"To keep you from identifying him. Yah see, up until just now, the authorities thought the guy that shot you was _dead_. He obviously wanted them to _keep_ thinking that. So he had to get **you** 'out of the way'."

"Yeah…well…He wouldn't a' had to _shoot_ me. Because I didn't really get a good enough look at his face, to be able to _identify_ him. When I entered the office, the guy had his back to me. When he finally turned around, the first thing he did was pull this big _gun _out of his pocket. Believe me, from that moment on, **all** of my attention was _fully focused_ on his _gun_—**not** his _face_." The paramedic stopped speaking and gritted his teeth. The pain he was now experiencing was quickly becoming unbearable.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps could be heard coming down the corridor.

John's sad, pain-filled eyes drifted toward the room's open doorway.

A nurse hurried into the room and up to his hospital bed. The woman administered his pain med' and then took a quick set of vitals. Following a brief, but thorough, patient evaluation, she replaced his chart and then turned to leave.

The patient's eyes followed his pretty caregiver, as she stepped past the armed police officer that was still posted beside his door—and then disappeared.

"The cops must think he's gonna try to kill me _again_, huh…" Gage glumly realized, as the pain gradually began to recede.

"That's because he **did** try to kill you again," Roy reluctantly informed him. "In fact, he did _more_ than 'try'."

His buddy's bandaged head swung back in his direction and the two of them locked gazes again.

DeSoto gave his shocked amigo an exceedingly grim nod. "The second day you were here. He snuck into the hospital, knocked out the nurses on this floor and…suffocated you. Bryce was able to chase the guy off and start CPR. By the time I arrived, he and Dr. Tyler had your heart going again."

John considered all that over for a few moments. Then his sad face suddenly filled with concern. "The nurses! _They_ okay?"

Roy couldn't help but smile. "They're all fine. In fact, they're already back on duty."

His partner looked tremendously relieved, and then curious. "Did Brice call you?"

DeSoto shook his head.

"Dr. Tyler?"

Roy gave his blond head another shake. "You're prob'ly not gonna believe this," he predicted, "but it was **you**. I'd fallen asleep on the couch. I heard you calling my name, and woke up, fully expecting to find you standing in my living room. When I didn't see you there, I figured I must a' been dreamin'. So I tried to go back to sleep. But then I heard you calling me _again_—just as clearly as could be. Pretty _crazy_, huh?"

"Wanna hear somethin' even _crazier_?" Johnny quickly countered. "Remember last year, when you fell through the floor in that lady's kitchen? Everybody was looking for you at the front of the house, because the guy's from Truck 12 said they'd seen you go in that way. But I _knew_ that you were in the basement. I kept…_seein_' 'things'. I could actually _see_ that pool table, and that water heater…and that furnace. I actually _felt_ the heat on my chest, from those burning boards that were layin' across you. And **I** was wide awake, at the time."

"I always wondered how you guys were able to find me so fast. When I asked Cap' about it, he said that you had heard me calling for help. Couldn't quite figure out how I'd managed to do that, though. Since I was unconscious."

"Well, I had to come up with _something_. I mean, I couldn't very well tell him that I was _seein_' 'things'."

The two 'telepathic' friends traded grins.

Seeing that his partner was no longer pained—or petrified, Roy tugged the wall light off. He returned to his comfortable cot and quickly climbed back beneath his covers. "Goodnight, Johnny."

"Cool!" Johnny exclaimed. "This is just like bein' back at the Station. Goodnight, Roy." He allowed his increasingly heavy eyelids to drop.

Several silent seconds passed.

"Ro-oy?"

"Yeah, Johnny?"

"Who won the Rose Bowl? Do you know?"

Once again, Roy couldn't help but smile. "Washington beat Michigan 27 to 20."

"Damn. How 'bout the Sugar Bowl?"

"The Crimson Tide swamped the Buckeyes 35 to 6."

"Woo hoo! That means that Chet and Marco owe me ten bucks. Hey, Roy?"

DeSoto exhaled a weary sigh. "Yeah?"

"Thanks…for _everything_."

"You're welcome. Now, go to sleep."

Nothing more was said after that.

There was nothing more that needed to be said.

**TBC**


	28. Chapter 28

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

DeSoto was awakened at around six o'clock in the morning, by a series of low moans. The paramedic popped bolt upright on his comfortable cot and his sleepy head swung in his pained partner's direction.

There was a grimace on Gage's face. But his eyes remained closed.

'Johnny must be moaning in his sleep,' Roy silently realized. His bare feet instantly hit the floor and his right index finger immediately reached for the red button on his now-groaning amigo's call buzzer. His hands then moved to the sides of his hurting friend's tossing head.

* * *

Within seconds after being summoned, two people appeared in the doorway to ICU's Room 604.

"Good morning," John's surgeon said with a smile, as he stepped up to the foot of his pained patient's hospital bed and snatched up the metal clipboard that was hanging there. "Your brother, here, seems to be experiencing some discomfort."

A nurse had accompanied Paul Kurtz into the room. Upon seeing the physician's nod, she emptied one of the two loaded hypos in her hands into the groaning young man's IV port.

Roy felt his friend's body beginning to relax and released his steadying hold on his heavily bandaged head. "When he came to yesterday afternoon, he was complaining of pain in his head, throat and chest."

"That's perfectly understandable," the doctor decreed. Kurtz completed a careful perusal of the medical chart and passed it on to the nurse, so he could begin his own patient evaluation.

The nurse placed the remaining syringe down on the patient's med' stand and carefully recorded each of the physician's findings.

* * *

Midway through the surgeon's verbal assessment, the grimacing gunshot victim's eyes fluttered open.

The doctor smiled down at his slightly sedated—and apparently still pained—patient. "Hi there. Paul Kurtz. I'm the one who's been poking around in that hole in your noggin."

Gage grimaced even more, at the mental image. "Did you put a 'metal plate' in my head?"

"Nope. No metal plates," Kurtz assured him, and resumed his patient evaluation.

The paramedic seemed confused. "What _did_ you use to plug the hole?"

"Silly putty," the surgeon teased, and finally succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from the gravely injured young fireman. "Fortunately, I was able to recover _all_ of the bone fragments. I just _love_ to work jig-saw puzzles."

The pained paramedic's smile broadened a bit. "Thank you, Dr. Kurtz."

The good doctor smiled back. "You're welcome, Mr. Gage—"

"—John," his patient prompted.

"You're welcome, John," Kurtz quickly corrected. "On a scale of one to ten, with one being the least and ten being the most, what number would you assign to your pain level?"

"Twelve," John truthfully told him.

The physician's smile returned. The sedative, alone, hadn't worked. So he nodded for the nurse to administer the analgesic.

The woman obediently emptied the contents of the second syringe into the patient's IV port.

The grimace on the gunshot victim's face gradually vanished.

His physician's smile slowly faded, as well. "John, there is someone outside, who insists on seeing you. I've been putting him off for the past week now. But he claims that it is extremely important that he speak with you—as soon as possible. Do you think that _you_ feel up to speaking with _him_?"

Gage locked gazes with his partner and the two of them exchanged a puzzled look. "I dunno…I suppose so."

The surgeon crossed over to the open doorway to 604, stuck his right arm out into the hallway and motioned for someone to approach. "You've got _two minutes_," Kurtz icily informed the business-suited fellow who came scurrying down the corridor and into the room.

"Right," the gentleman gratefully acknowledged. "Special Agent Daniel Rousseau," he introduced, stepping up beside the vertical paramedic's hospital bed. He was carrying a portable tape recorder in his right hand and several 8X10 photos in his left. "I'm with the government's Organized Crime Task Force. If you're feeling up to it, I'd like to talk to you about the night you were shot."

"Sure," Gage unenthusiastically agreed, following another glance in his partner's direction.

"Excellent!" Agent Rousseau declared. He placed his portable tape recorder down on the patient's hospital bed and hit the **RECORD** button. Next, he pressed the first of four glossy photos up to the eyewitness' frowning face. "Please, let me know if you recognize any of these men…"

Roy recognized Carl Iverson's photo, immediately. It was the third one in the stack.

His partner apparently recognized his assailant, after all, because he momentarily stopped breathing. "That's him."

Rousseau's eyes lit up. "Are you certain?"

John nodded. "I don't recall too much about the guy's face. But I got a real good look at his eyes. I'll never forget those eyes—as long as I live." He had stared into those cold, callous orbs, begging—pleading—for his life. "That's definitely the deaf guy who was in that office."

It was Agent Rousseau's turn to stop breathing. "Are you certain the man that shot you was _deaf_?"

Gage gave him another nod. "He was deaf, all right. Didn't hear me shouting at him—or the blaring of the smoke alarms. That's why he was so startled to see me, when he finally did turn around."

"Excellent!" Agent Rousseau re-exclaimed and clicked off his tape recorder. "Thank you, Mister Ga—"

"—John," Mister Gage interrupted.

The agent flashed the young fireman a grateful grin. "Thank you, John!"

Roy was more than a little perplexed. "If you know _who_ the guy is, and _what_ he looks like, why haven't you been able to **find** him?"

"We **did** find him," the agent proudly replied.

John exchanged a puzzled glance with his partner, and then posed a quick question of his own. "Then, why is that cop still standing outside my door? Why haven't you _arrested_ the guy?"

"Mr. Iverson is a 'person of interest' in an ongoing criminal investigation," the government agent reluctantly informed them. "He has ties to a nationwide arson ring. Because of that, we have been keeping him under 24-hour surveillance. Iverson's every move is being continuously monitored. **If** he attempts to come back here, _then_ we'll pick him up." He glanced at his watch. "You've been a big help, John. I wish you a speedy—and complete—recovery." With that, Special Agent Rousseau was gone.

Roy was suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

Carl Iverson was fond of planting bombs in people's cars. What if he decided to plant one there, at Rampart? He could blow up the entire hospital! Hell, he wouldn't even have to 'plant' the bomb, himself. Iverson could just drop it in the mail!

DeSoto was no longer just worried about his best friend. The lives of everyone in the hospital were now in danger! The paramedic gripped his partner's left wrist and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "How do yah feel?"

"Like a hunk a' cheese in a rat-trap," Gage gloomily responded.

Roy's already upset tummy took another tumble, as he realized Johnny had gotten that _just about right_.

**TBC**


	29. Chapter 29

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Around seven, that same morning…

Johnny had finally succumbed to the mild sedative he'd been given.

Roy was standing beside his peacefully sleeping partner's hospital bed, contemplating what Special Agent Rousseau had told them. The agent's assurance, that John's assailant was being kept under 24-hour surveillance, just didn't set right with him. The deeply troubled paramedic was determined to pass his concerns on to their Captain—ASAP!

He heard footsteps out in the corridor and turned to see who was coming to visit them.

* * *

Chet Kelly stopped just outside John Gage's hospital room. He dug his wallet out of his back pocket and flashed his Los Angeles County Fire Department badge and I.D. to the guy with the gun, who was standing guard at the door.

The officer gave the badge and official photo I.D. a careful scrutinization and then motioned for the fireman to proceed into the room.

* * *

As Chet entered ICU's Room 604, he crooked his head toward its open door and incredulously inquired, "The cops _still_ haven't caught the creep?"

Roy gave the policeman being pointed out a quick glance. Recalling that he and his Captain had been sworn to secrecy, he simply replied, "Apparently not."

Kelly stepped right up beside Gage's hospital bed. "Look, if you wanna go shower and shave, or grab some breakfast, or call your old lady, or somethin', I can stay with our boy, here…"

DeSoto flashed his fellow firefighter a grateful grin and eagerly took him up on his offer. "Thanks, Chet! I'll be back in two hours," the vertical paramedic promised and immediately made his departure from the room.

The recent arrival directed his full attention back to the body in the bed. 'Sheesh…'

Gage almost looked…dead.

Chet gazed glumly down at the thick white bandage that covered his extremely frail looking friend's forehead. "Hey, Chief…Interesting headband yah got…goin' there…" The last few words of his light comment got caught in his throat and he had to cough them the rest of the way out.

His paramedic pal's eyes failed to flutter open, and the rest of him remained perfectly still, as well.

Kelly's damp eyes suddenly filled with a profound sadness. 'Gawd…' What he wouldn't give to hear the 'Chief' make—er, attempt to make a witty comeback. "Look, you know I would never _intentionally_ wish you any harm. Right?" The remorse-filled fireman gripped the sidebars on his badly injured buddy's hospital bed and forced himself to continue. "I didn't _really_ mean to bet **against** you. Honest! When I said that only one of you would be left standing at the end of the shift, and it wasn't gonna be you, you know I was just _joshin_'…Ri-ight?"

Once again, his bed-ridden friend failed to reply.

Kelly closed his tear streaming eyes tightly and bowed his head. "I am so-o sorry this had to happen to you, Johnny…"

Johnny was currently engaged in a desperate battle with the drug that was coursing through his veins. He finally managed to fight its sedative effect off enough to make his mouth move—although it did so in slow motion. "No matter…how many...missiles…are launched…against him…Godzilla will…always…prevail."

Chet's eyes snapped open and his head snapped back up. "How long have you been listening?"

"Since you…called Joanne…an…'old lady'…I don't think…she's gonna…like that…She might even…smack you." Gage somehow got his sedated mouth to form a lopsided smile, but—try as he might—he still couldn't raise his eyelids.

"Crimony, Gage, why the hell didn't you _say_ something?"

"They've…got me…se-sedated…Besides…I hear that…confession…is s'posed to be…good for…the soul." The sedated patient's lopsided smile put in another appearance.

"Oh yeah? Well then I got another _confession_ to make. If you weren't already flat on your back, _I'd_ be tempted to smack _you_."

Kelly's latest comment caused Gage to giggle outright. "Oh-oh…lighten up," he lightly urged. "I never took…what you said…that morning…in the parking lot…_seriously_, Chet…I knew…you were just…jokin'…arou—" The paramedic's mouth suddenly stopped moving and he was perfectly still, once more. The patient may have won a minor 'drug battle', but he'd definitely just lost the 'sedative war'.

Relief flooded through Chester B.'s body and he smiled down at his peacefully sleeping—sedated—chum. "Get well soon, will yah, Gage. I tell yah, it's just too damn _quiet_ around the Station." That said, John's visitor backed away from the bed and plunked himself down in DeSoto's vacated seat…to assume his vigil.

**TBC**


	30. Chapter 30

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Thirty**

Less than an hour later, the sound of more scuffling shoes could be heard out in the hall.

Kelly pulled his nose out of the mystery novel he'd been perusing to see who was approaching.

* * *

Two uniformed, gun-toting cops came down the corridor, stepped right past the guard and clear into the room.

"Officer Dennis Harmon, LAPD," the taller of the two intruders introduced. "This is my partner, Benjamin Rivard."

Chet stood and shook their extended hands. "Chet Kelly, LACFD."

Denny exchanged a quick glance with his comrade. "We, uh, just wanted to return Fireman Gage's wallet," the cop paused to pass Kelly the paramedic's billfold—and badge.

"Yeah. And his paramedic stuff," Ben added and set a clear plastic evidence bag filled with the contents of a paramedic's assessment kit down on the hospital bed.

"We had planned to drop this stuff off when we pulled duty here," Denny announced.

"Yeah. But that isn't too likely to happen," Ben sadly tacked on.

"There's a' list—five pages long—of officers who have already volunteered to pull guard duty on that door," Denny explained and pointed to the ICU room's exit.

Ben exchanged another glance with his buddy. "Look, we gotta get goin'."

"Yeah," Denny agreed. "Tell your friend that we're _real sorry_ for what happened in that alley. I guess we were a little rough on him."

"Yeah. And tell him that we both hope that he gets better _real soon_."

"I will," a totally bewildered Chet Kelly promised. The vertical fireman took and shook the apologetic police officers' re-proffered appendages…and then the two cops quickly took their leave. Kelly's completely puzzled gaze promptly resettled upon the peacefully sleeping paramedic. "Good grief, Gage!" His buddy had better 'get better _real soon_', cuz he had a whole lot of explaining to do.

The mystified fireman stuck his friend's 'stuff' on the nearest med' stand and then returned to his reading.

* * *

Less than an hour later…

Chet heard more footsteps approaching and glanced up from his book—er, Roy's book just in time to see two more uniformed, gun-toting police officers step past the cop at the door and into ICU's Room 604. The seated fireman's mustache twitched a couple of times and his bushy eyebrows arched clear up into the middle of his forehead.

The younger of the two cops stepped quietly up to his buddy's hospital bed and then stood there, staring silently—and sadly—down at the peacefully sleeping paramedic. "He sure looks a whole lot better, lying here in this bed, than he did back in that alley," Johnny's visitor solemnly determined, keeping his concerned voice hushed.

"Most definitely!" the older officer agreed, as he stepped up beside his colleague.

The younger guy finally glanced up. "Officer Nick Fedrizzi. This is my partner, Officer Alexander Michaelson."

"Mike," his partner corrected and promptly proffered his right appendage.

The interrupted reader set Roy's book aside and stiffly got to his feet. "Fireman Chet Kelly," he re-introduced. He took and shook both officers' hands and then stood there, experiencing a major case of deja` vu.

"Are you his paramedic partner?" Nick pondered.

"I'm a lineman," the mustached fireman informed him. "Johnny and I are shiftmates."

"We just wanted to see how your friend was doing," Fedrizzi explained. "Yah see, we're the guys who found him that night…and brought him in."

Kelly's confusion was suddenly quadrupled. "Thanks."

The younger officer's sorrowful face filled with even greater sadness. "We damn near didn't get him here in time."

"I, uh, also came to apologize," Mike quietly confessed. "We—er, I mistook your fireman friend here for a 'hype', and I'm afraid we—er, I treated him rather…badly." The officer gazed glumly down at the sleeping paramedic. "Looks like I'll have to come back another time…"

"They've got him 'sedated'. So he can't talk, but I'm fairly certain he can still _hear_ you," Kelly assured John Gage's latest gun-toting visitors.

"In that case," Mike bent over the railing on the side of the sedated paramedic's hospital bed and sincerely said, "I'm…sorry I acted like such a jack-ass."

"He wasn't _acting_," Nick teased, and received an elbow in the ribs from his bent over buddy.

Officer Michaelson fought back a smile and forced himself to continue. "I was…pretty rough on you that night, and you certainly didn't deserve to be treated like…that."

"Nobody deserves to be treated like that," Nick reminded his fellow officer and immediately backed away from the bed, before his partner's elbow could reconnect with his ribcage.

Mike flashed his young friend a sad smile and then focused his full attention back on the bed-ridden fireman. "Nick's right," the 'set in his ways' police officer sadly and solemnly realized. "Nobody deserves to be treated like that…"

Once again, John Gage was able to fight the drug's sedative effects and struggle to the surface. "You…don't…owe me…any…apologies," the fireman assured the repentant cop, speaking in sort a' s l o w motion. "I…owe…you guys…my…_life_."

The two astounded police officers watched as a hint of a smile appeared upon the sedated paramedic's face.

"Thanks," Gage told his two rescuers. Then his slight smile disappeared and he was perfectly still—er, sedated…once again.

"You're welcome!" Nick warmly replied, with a slight smile of his own making. "We gotta go now. We had to promise the nurse at the desk that we'd only stay a couple a' minutes. But we'll be back."

"Yeah," Mike agreed. "We, uh, sure hope that you will get well—_real quick_!"

Kelly re-shook the two officers' extended hands and then quickly re-took his seat. 'Sheesh!' he silently re-exclaimed as their latest gun-toting visitors exited the room. The now even _more_ mystified fireman picked the mystery novel back up and promptly resumed his reading.

**TBC**


	31. Chapter 31

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Thirty-One**

Nancy Pearson was sitting at her station in ICU's Room 600-A, calmly sipping her coffee. The RN's alert blue eyes continuously roved from one wall-mounted television monitor to another. The alarming scene up on the #4 screen caused the nurse to set her steaming cup down and straighten in her seat. The woman's eyes remained riveted to the #4 screen. Her freed right hand deftly began reaching for the unseen 'send' button on the room's intercom. Her fingers found it and pressed it. "The patient in 604 is seizing!" she dutifully reported. "Page Dr. Kurtz!"

* * *

Speaking of the patient in 604…

Kelly heard Gage groan.

The reader raised his gaze up from page 147 and watched, with growing alarm, as the paramedic's body suddenly stiffened and then began to jerk—uncontrollably.

Chet tossed the book aside and leapt up out of his seat. He pressed the room's 'call' button and then slid the hospital bed's side rail down. The fireman braced his buddy's heavily bandaged head with both hands and used his forearms to hold John's jerking shoulders down on the bed. "Hang on, babe," he gently urged. "Help is on the way."

* * *

Just outside the open door to ICU's Room 604…

Officer Lee Turinen's eyes about doubled in size, as a whole herd of hospital staffers suddenly came stampeding down the corridor. His right hand dropped instinctively to his hip, but then he just sighed—in surrender—and quickly stepped aside.

The hospital people were apparently on an _urgent_ mission.

* * *

Speaking of stepping aside…

Kelly reluctantly turned his head and shoulder holding duties over to an orderly and began backing away from his buddy's hospital bed. The fireman pressed himself up against the wall and then watched, helplessly, while drugs were injected into the seizing patient's IV port.

John Gage's jerking limbs gradually stilled and a fresh set of vital signs were gathered.

* * *

The medical information was no sooner recorded, when a white-besmocked doctor type came racing into the room. The new arrival skidded to a stop at the foot of Johnny's bed and extended his right hand.

The patient's medical chart was promptly placed in it.

The doctor perused its contents for a few somber moments. Then he pulled a pen from one of his smock's front pockets, scribbled something down on the chart, and passed it back to the nurse.

The fact that no one was _saying_ anything had an already deeply-concerned Chet Kelly feeling even more concerned. "Is he okay?" the worried fireman finally came right out and inquired.

Somebody had to break the room's insufferable silence.

Kurtz turned and gave the questioner a questioning look. "Who are _you_?"

"Chet Kelly. I'm, uh, John's friend…and fellow firefighter. Roy's takin' a break…"

The physician flashed Roy's replacement a warm smile. "Paul Kurtz. You're 'brother' is gonna be fine. This was just John's concussed brain's way of telling me that it's too _soon_ to try tapering off his anti-seizure medication." Seeing that the questioner still looked a bit concerned—and confused—Kurtz quickly continued. "That bullet struck his left temple with so much force, it sort a' scrambled his brain's electrical circuits. We've been keeping him on anti-convulsants, to give his badly injured brain time to heal. The seizure was just his bruised brain's way of showing us that it needs _more_ time."

Kelly had the irresistible urge to quip: "Gage's brains are _always_ 'scrambled'." But then he recalled how his last 'light' comments concerning the paramedic's health had turned out, and quickly bit his tongue. The reader slowly sank back into his seat and the crowded hospital room gradually emptied.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, more footsteps could be heard coming down the corridor.

"Sorry I'm so late getting back," Roy apologized, as he came rushing into the room. "Cap and I were having coffee, down in the Doctor's Lounge, and I sort a' lost track a' time. Anything _interesting_ happen while I was gone?"

Chet raised his gaze up from Roy's book and pretended to appear lost in thought. "Hmmm…Lets see…_First_, the cops held a freakin' convention in here…and _then_ **he** went into convulsions. Other than that, it's been relatively quiet," John Gage's 'sitter' summed up, his words oozing with sarcasm.

DeSoto studied the notorious 'kidder' carefully, but couldn't tell if Kelly was serious, or not. So he picked up his 'still peacefully sleeping' partner's medical chart and studied _it_, instead.

Sure enough! Johnny _had_ just suffered a seizure.

Roy's worried gaze immediately returned to Chet. "What did the _police_ want?"

"Seems they gave Gage, here, a really rough time the other night. Near as I can tell, they came to apologize. Oh, yeah—" the still completely mystified reporter paused to point a finger at the nearest med' stand, "they, uh, also returned his wallet and his 'paramedic stuff'." Kelly was pleased to see that Gage's partner appeared to be every bit as 'mystified' as he was. "I, uh, guess I'd better be going," the reader reluctantly realized. The fireman closed the book in his hands and got stiffly to his feet. "But, I can come back—and give you another break—tomorrow morning," he readily volunteered.

Roy flashed the eager volunteer a warm, grateful smile. "Ahhh, Chet…you really _do_ care."

"**N**ah-ah. I'm just anxious to find out 'who dunnit'," Kelly—the kidder—jokingly corrected and handed the vertical paramedic back his half-read mystery novel. He gave DeSoto's peacefully sleeping partner one last deeply-concerned glance…and then quickly took his leave.

* * *

Kelly had no sooner left, when yet another visitor arrived.

"Hey, Roy," Greg Garnett solemnly acknowledged, as he came stepping into the ICU room. The paramedic was obviously 'on duty', as he was wearing his uniform and carrying an HT.

"Hey, Greg," Roy greeted their unexpected guest.

"How's Johnny doing?" Garnett quickly queried, his hushed voice filled with concern.

Roy had an even better question. "How'd you get in here?"

"The nurse, down at the desk, said it was okay—just as long as I didn't stay _more_ than two minutes." Greg's deeply-concerned gaze resettled upon his partner's peacefully sleeping form. "How the hell could this happen?" he angrily demanded. "I am soooo sorry, Johnny." He glanced back up at Roy. "That should be **me**, lying there in that bed."

Gage caught Garnett's disturbing comments and, once again, felt compelled to speak. "What did…Pam say…when you…popped…the question?"

Garnett was surprised to find that the 'traumatic brain injury' patient was conscious…well, kind a' conscious. "Johnny! Man! I am soooo sorry! I don't know _how_ I'm ever gonna make this up to you."

DeSoto was alarmed to see his fireman friend fighting the sedative.

A slight, forgiving smile formed upon the horizontal paramedic's lips. "You can…start by…buyin' me…a…new pair…a'…_black_ jeans…" the fireman informed his deeply-troubled friend, "and a…new…_white_…dress shirt."

Greg heard the request and was forced to smile. "Thanks, Johnny. Pam said 'yes'."

Johnny's smile broadened a bit, but then quickly faded, as he lost the 'fight' and succumbed to the sedative.

"Get better soon," their 'on duty' visitor urged and turned to take his leave.

Roy picked up the room's wall-mounted phone's receiver and placed a call. "Yes. This is Roy DeSoto, in ICU 604. Could you page Dr. Kurtz and have him call me?"

* * *

Five minutes later…

Paul Kurtz exited the elevator on the sixth floor and stepped up to the ICU's Nurses' Station. "Nurse Shelby," he addressed the pretty, petite blonde RN who was currently on duty there, "I understand that you have been allowing the patient in Room 604 to see visitors…"

"Yes," the woman admitted. "Since you allowed Special Agent Rousseau in to see him, I assumed Mr. Gage was now allowed visitors—just as long as they didn't stay _more_ than two minutes, that is."

"Well, Nurse Shelby, you assumed _wrong_. I may have upgraded John's condition from critical to serious, but I assure you, he is definitely NOT in any shape—yet—to be dealing with visitors. With the exception of Roy DeSoto—and Mr. Kelly—this patient is NOT to be 'disturbed'. Understood?"

"Yes, Dr. Kurtz," the apologetic young lady promised.

Paul heaved a huge sigh of relief and turned to leave.

Kel Brackett exited the elevator and strode up to John Gage's doctor. "What's up?" he anxiously inquired. "I heard you being paged—again. How's he doing?"

"Considering that, at one point, the patient was clinically **dead**, I'd say he's doing remarkably well," Paul assured the young paramedic's good friend.

Brackett breathed a big sigh of relief, himself. "Can I buy you a cup a' coffee?"

Kurtz readily took him up on his offer. "Thanks. I could sure use a caffeine _fix._"

**TBC**


	32. Chapter 32

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

Once again, Carl Iverson found himself in a bit of a quandary.

Each day, he would pick up his morning paper, hoping to see a 'Fireman Found Suffocated in His Hospital Bed' headline, but no mention was ever made of his _latest_ dastardly deed.

As difficult as it was for him to believe, Carl finally concluded that, once again, the 'deed' had **not** been _completely_ accomplished.

The cold-blooded killer further concluded that that young fireman had to be one, unbelievably _tough_ bastard.

Oh well…That would teach him to try to _kill_ somebody in a 'hospital'.

Carl cursed his bad luck.

Now, the cops would be keeping his quarry protected.

Now, in order to succeed, the killer realized he would need to be _much_ more 'creative'—er, destructive.

* * *

Iverson doused the brown wig in his hands with baby powder. The long brown strands of nylon instantly turned gray. He placed the powdered item beside the nearly ankle-length dress, and the ridiculously large purse, that he had purchased at a local 'Thrift' store, the day before.

Carl smiled down at his latest 'clever' disguise.

Tomorrow, he would 'eliminate' that damn fireman—once and for all!

He turned his attention to the electrical components, rolls of tape and stacks of plastic explosives that were resting on his coffee table. The ex-mob enforcer's sick smile broadened into an even sicker grin. 'Along with most—if not all—of the hospital's sixth floor,' Iverson silently—and sickly—predicted.

After a 'minor miscalculation' had caused both of his own eardrums to be blown out, Carl wasn't exactly keen on working with 'explosives' again, but the cops would never allow him to get close enough to kill the fireman any 'other' way. So his options were extremely limited.

* * *

Over coffee, Roy DeSoto had voiced his concerns—about the government's decision to leave Carl Iverson 'on the loose'—with his Captain.

Hank Stanley's discussion with his senior paramedic led the equally concerned fire officer to place an urgent phone call to headquarters.

* * *

Station 51's Captain's phone call led the Los Angeles County Fire Department's Chief Engineer, William Jenner, to contact his Battalion Chiefs, who, in turn, contacted their Station Captains.

* * *

A countywide call was put out for 'off-duty firemen who would be willing to take on a _special _assignment.'

Once word of what the 'special assignment' _was _got out, headquarters quickly had far more 'willing bodies' than were needed.

* * *

The hospital's security people were contacted. A shift-schedule was worked out, a duty roster was formulated and the volunteer firefighters were given their _special_ assignments.

* * *

All of that 'advance organization' apparently paid off, because, by 06:00 the following morning, the first shift of volunteers had arrived at Rampart.

* * *

Handy-talkies were handed out, that would allow the firemen to communicate with Rampart's own security people, everybody was briefed, and, by 06:15, there was an off-duty LA County fireman in position at every single one of the huge hospitals many entryways—_and_ exits.

Along with an HT, each of the off-duty firefighters had been handed a photocopy of Carl Iverson's mug shot.

The creep had already tried—twice—to kill one of their own.

The volunteers had vowed that they were **not** going to allow Mr. Iverson to make a _third_ attempt on their brother's life.

* * *

At approximately 09:00 that same morning, an old woman exited Carl Iverson's apartment building and climbed into a waiting cab.

Nobody paid the dowdy old broad—or the bulging handbag that she was carrying—the slightest bit of attention, including the Organized Crime Task Force's two special agents, who had been assigned to keep a certain 'person of interest' under _constant surveillance_.

* * *

Once again, Craig Brice just happened to be 'at the right place, at the right time'.

The paramedic had accompanied his stroke patient to the hospital and was now standing in front of the ER's Nurses' Station, waiting for his partner to pick him up.

He was very much aware of what the department was doing.

Craig was relieved to find Rick Belmont, from 48's, posted at the ER's entrance, when their ambulance pulled up. If the paramedic hadn't been 'on duty', he would have had his own 'special assignment'.

The bored fireman watched an old lady—with an absurdly huge handbag—step onto the elevator and wondered if the woman was smuggling contraband food items up to one the patients.

* * *

Less than two minutes later, the elevator doors reopened and the old woman reappeared.

Craig stiffened.

The old lady bore a strong resemblance to John's assailant. In fact, the woman could've been Carl Iverson's moth—Brice suddenly recalled that John's killer was fond of disguises. 'O-or _Carl Iverson_!' he silently realized and determined he would take a 'closer' look. The paramedic started heading toward the old hag—on a collision course.

Sure enough! The two moving bodies collided in the middle of the crowded hospital corridor.

Craig's 'up close and personal' collision with the old lady allowed him to both _see_ the five o'clock shadow on her—er, his homely face and _feel_ the hard weapon that was concealed beneath her—er, his buttoned up bosom—er, chest. "Pardon me, Mam," the paramedic promptly apologized. "I'm terribly sorry. Are you all right?"

Carl saw the fireman's lips moving, but couldn't hear what was being said. Iverson simply nodded and then quickly took his leave.

It was then that Craig realized that both of the man's hands were now _empty_. He swallowed hard and hurried over to where Hank Stanley was standing.

The off-duty Captain was coordinating the department's 'creep watch' in Emergency Receiving.

"Carl Iverson is here, Captain," Craig solemnly reported. "He's dressed like an old woman. I saw him step into—and out of—the elevator. He just took off down the hall." The paramedic suddenly looked even more solemn than he sounded. "Captain, Iverson came down _without_ his handbag,"

Stanley's already lurching stomach suddenly formed an enormous knot. He passed the on-duty paramedic his radio. "You try to find _him_! I'll try to find the _handbag_!"

Craig nodded and went racing off down the crowded hospital corridor, in the direction Iverson had just vanished in.

Hank did an about face and began heading for the elevator—also at a dead run. "We need to get everybody **off **the sixth floor!" the fire officer loudly declared, as he went racing past Dr. Brackett.

The physician's face instantly filled with both understanding—and alarm. Kel ran over to the Nurses' Station and snatched the phone up from its counter. "Yes! This is Dr. Brackett! Begin an **immediate** _emergency_ evacuation of the sixth floor!"

* * *

Craig caught back up to the cold-blooded killer just in time to watch him disappear into to the basement's stairwell. He halted just outside the closed door and raised the radio in his right hand. "Brice…in Emergency Receiving," he breathlessly reported in. "Mr. Storey…Carl Iverson just ran down…into the basement…near the Lab…Iverson is dressed…like an old lady…and he **is**…carrying a gun!"

"Roger that, Brice!" the head of Rampart General Hospital's security acknowledged. "Storey out!"

* * *

Hank Stanley stood in the ridiculously slow-moving elevator, his entire being willing it to operate faster. "C'mon! C'mon!" the Captain continued to urge, this time, speaking to it right out loud.

At long last, the pokey lift stopped and its doors '_ping'_ed open.

Stanley stepped out onto the sixth floor and addressed the nearest nurse. "That old woman who was just up here—where did she go?"

"She stepped into the visitor's lounge for a couple a' seconds—and then left," the bewildered woman obligingly informed him.

The off-duty officer made a frantic dash for the little room on his left.

* * *

Stanley stopped, just inside the lounge, and his darting eyes began a quick, but careful, reconnoiter of the relatively small space. The Captain's racing heart suddenly skipped a beat.

There, setting on top of the coffee vending machine, was the old woman's 'purse'.

Hank didn't bother to 'crank' one of the room's two windows open. He just hurled the little lounge's coffee table through one of them. The fire officer carefully removed the bulging handbag from the top of the coffee machine and proceeded to fling the thing—just as far as he possibly could—out the 'opened' window. The cringing Captain then threw _himself_ down onto the carpeted floor and covered his un-helmeted head with both of his arms.

A couple of seconds later, there was a foundation rocking '_**KA-BOO-OOM!**_**'**

**TBC**


	33. Chapter 33

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

Patrolman Jack Stafford had been standing guard outside the open door to Room 604 for the past four-and-a-half hours. He heard the eardrum-shattering sound of something powerful exploding and felt the whole building rock. The officer immediately drew his weapon and then proceeded to retreat into the injured fireman's hospital room.

* * *

Inside ICU's Room 604…

Roy had just returned from his two-hour break and Chet was just about to take his leave, when the explosion occurred.

Kelly heard the blast and felt the floor shake beneath his boots. "What the hell was _that_?" he asked Gage's armed guard, as the guy suddenly ducked into the room.

The officer didn't have an answer.

"Sounded like somebody may have just set off a _rat-trap_!" Roy alarmedly determined and directed an extremely anxious gaze in the _hunk a' cheese_'s direction. The paramedic was even more dismayed to discover that his lightly sedated buddy's eyes were both wide open. He reached out and pressed the nurses' call button.

Kelly considered the vertical paramedic's nonsensical reply over for a few moments. Then his mustached face scrunched up a might. "Huh-uh?"

"_Please_…tell me…that guy **didn't**…bring a _bomb_…into this hospital…" the horizontal paramedic pleaded, looking and sounding somewhat panic-stricken.

Gawd, how DeSoto wished he _could_ tell him that.

But, at the moment, a _bomb_ was the only logical explanation for the explosion they'd just heard—and felt.

Roy's silence caused his already extremely upset-looking partner to appear even more agitated.

Johnny's slightly sedated brain suddenly registered something and his distraught face filled with a look of absolute horror. His being there had placed the whole damn hospital in danger!

Alarms sounded, as the patient's cardiac monitor suddenly went wild.

The patient struggled to sit up. "First, he attacks the nurses…on this floor! Now, he's attacking…everybody in the building!"

Roy and Chet did their damnedest to keep their highly agitated, severely injured buddy in his bed.

* * *

Captain Stanley uncovered his head and gave it a quick shake. The rattled fire officer exhaled an audible sigh of relief and carefully picked himself up off of the floor of the lounge.

He saw that the space he had been occupying on the carpeting had been outlined by shards of broken glass, and gave his head another quick shake.

Hank then crossed—er, crunched over to the little room's blown out—er, blown in windows and took a quick look.

Well, the table he'd tossed out hadn't hit anybody, and there were no 'bodies' visible down below.

Because the _handbag_ had exploded in mid-air, and because the blast did not occur in a _confined_ space, and because the ICU's Visitors' Lounge was located at the _back_ of the building, the powerful bomb's damage appeared to be limited to just a lot of shattered windows—and nerves.

Speaking of shattered nerves…

"Ga-age!" Stanley muttered beneath his breath and went racing back out of the room.

* * *

Hank halted just outside the ICU Ward's double-doored entrance and cautiously pushed one of the swinging portals open a crack. "Captain Hank Stanley!" he called down the deserted corridor. "Los Angeles County Fire Department!" he added for good measure and flashed Gage's armed guard his badge and photo I.D..

"Come ahead!" the cop called back. "But keep your hands open and your arms out to the sides!"

The Captain re-pocketed his wallet, slowly entered the Ward and did just as he was directed.

* * *

Prior to allowing the Captain access to Room 604, the armed cop gave the fireman's credentials a much closer inspection. Finally satisfied, as to their visitor's intentions and identity, the police officer waved the fire officer into the room.

Hank heaved another audible sigh of relief and stepped into Gage's hospital room. Alas, his relief was short-lived.

Two of his guys, along with an orderly and a nurse, were currently engaged in a struggle with the room's critically injured occupant.

Well, the only thing the nurse was actually struggling with was the recently filled hypodermic syringe she was wielding.

"You guys…gotta get me…_outta_ here!" the bed-ridden paramedic implored and attempted, once again, to rise up from his hospital bed.

"At ease!" Stanley sternly ordered and stepped right up beside his antsy, injured crewman.

The nurse finally managed to administer the sedative.

Whether it was as a result of the syringe's contents, or his command, the patient suddenly went completely limp.

That is, until the hypo'ed paramedic happened to notice the lacerations on his boss' arms. "Ca-ap…you're bleeding…all over my bed!" he anxiously exclaimed and tried, once again, to sit up.

Stanley shoved him back onto his pillows. "Sorry 'bout that," he replied with a warm smile. Hank gave his injured forearms a disinterested glance. "Guess I must a' got hit with some flying glass." He glanced around. "Everybody okay in here?"

"We are no-ow," Roy relievedly replied. "Here…You better let me have a look at those cuts," the fireman further realized and sat their bleeding Captain down on his cot.

* * *

Six floors below, just outside the basement stairwell in Emergency Receiving…

Craig had been perfectly content to remain on 'his' side of the basement door. That is, until he recalled that the hospital's Lab was filled with technicians, and that those technicians could be used as hostages.

So the fireman had stealthily slipped into the stairwell and cautiously made his way down to the Lab.

* * *

Brice had the laboratory evacuated and was just about to follow the last of its fleeing workers back up the stairs, when the sound of running feet came echoing down the deserted hallway.

Iverson was coming back.

Craig raced up the basement stairs—two steps at a time. He had no notion of how he was going to accomplish his task. He just knew that the armed killer had to be kept **out** of Emergency Receiving.

* * *

The paramedic got back on the 'safe' side of the basement door.

Unfortunately, there was no way to lock it, and nothing within close proximity was heavy enough to block it. He glanced around.

The ER was already in a state of complete pandemonium, on account of the explosion.

He dreaded to think what the ward would be like once Iverson arrived waving—and perhaps even firing—his weapon. Craig gasped in exasperation and peered through the portal's narrow glass window.

Iverson was heading up the basement stairs—with his gun drawn!

Craig stepped away from the door and waited.

If the fireman timed things just right, he just might be able to knock the bad guy back down the basement steps.

The doorknob moved.

Brice waited until the heavy wooden portal was almost halfway open, before charging into it—full force.

Fortunately, he had timed his move perfectly.

The heavy door slammed into John's assailant and sent him reeling backwards.

* * *

"Ahhh-ahhh!" Carl Iverson shrieked, as he was suddenly shoved back and off-balance. His left arm flailed desperately, in search of a handhold.

There wasn't one.

So the cold-blooded killer continued to sail backwards—and right off the top of the landing.

* * *

Craig grimaced and grabbed his bruised right shoulder. The pained paramedic then snuck another quick peak through the extremely hard portal's little, narrow window. He watched in satisfaction as Iverson went toppling—head over heels—back down the basement stairs.

* * *

The gunman landed in a moaning heap at the foot of the steps.

"**Don't move!…Or I'll shoot!**" Storey screamed—er, threatened at the top of his heaving lungs, as he—and three armed members of his security detail—caught up with their fleeing quarry at the base of the basement stairway.

It was the last thing Carl Iverson never heard.

* * *

Craig jerked, as a shot suddenly rang out and up from the basement stairwell. He reached out with his left hand and slowly pulled the heavy portal back open. "Anybody down there require medical assistance?" he anxiously inquired.

"No!" Mr. Storey solemnly replied. "Carl Iverson is…_dead_!"

Brice was not the slightest bit heartbroken to hear that particular bit of news. If fact, the paramedic heaved his third sigh of relief, in as many minutes.

* * *

Brice's first stop, after being waylaid by Dr. Brackett, was ICU's Room 604.

The paramedic strolled into John's hospital room with his right shoulder immobilized and his right arm in a sling. He saw that the person he'd come to see was either asleep, or sedated. "I, uh, just wanted John to know that Carl Iverson won't be hurting _anyone_…anymore."

Hank—and everybody else within earshot—heaved a tremendous sigh of relief.

Gage's guard relaxed and promptly re-holstered his weapon.

Stanley studied Brice's bandages. "What'd yah do to your shoulder?"

Craig gave his injured arm a glum glance. "I had a little 'run-in' with a door. What'd _you_ do to your arms?"

"I had a little 'run-in' with a bomb," the Captain replied, using the paramedic's own vernacular. Hank stared at the new arrival, looking somewhat astonished. "How on earth did you ever manage to recognize Iverson?"

"I saw Belmont with a photo in his hands, when I first arrived," Craig calmly replied. "Logic dictated that it was a picture of John's assailant."

'Sheesh!' Chet silently exclaimed. 'He sounds just like Spock!'

Stanley was even more astounded. "You were able to I.D. Iverson—right through his disguise—just by glancing at his photo for a second?

Craig nodded. "A quick glance was all that I required. You see, I have a photographic memory."

'Humph. He actually _is_ a walking rulebook,' Roy realized, solely to himself.

"A _photographic memory_," Hank dazedly repeated. "A fact for which we can _all_ be eternally grateful!" The Captain's gaze fell upon his peacefully sleeping paramedic. 'Especially _you_, pal…' he solemnly, and silently, mused. "Especially _you_," he quietly restated, right out loud.

**TBC**


	34. Chapter 34

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

Later that same explosive day…

John Gage groaned and gradually regained consciousness.

His backside was unbelievably sore, from having to lie in that damn bed for so long, and the rest of his muscles _ached_ with fatigue. In short, the fireman felt like he'd just finished pulling a double-shift. Yup! The patient awoke feeling _mighty_ miserable.

That is, until his blinking, bleary eyes focused upon his room's doorway—his room's _empty_ doorway.

His armed guard was gone!

That meant that the 'rat' must also be gone. Right?

The 'hunk a cheese' slowly turned his heavily bandaged head and aimed his hope-filled gaze in his reading roommate's direction.

His buddy glanced up from his book, saw the look and nodded. "He's dead."

Johnny exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

His partner went on to explain how Brice had positively identified Iverson and then alerted their captain to both Iverson's presence and the bomb's. Roy then further related how their captain had neutralized the bomb threat and how Craig had helped hospital security neutralize the killer.

* * *

Dr. Paul Kurtz exited Room 600-A and pushed his way into the ICU Ward.

Following his morning 'wrestling match', John Gage had suffered _another_ seizure, and his physician was becoming quite concerned.

* * *

The doctor strolled down the deserted hallway, into Room 604 and right up to the foot of his traumatic-brain-injury patient's hospital bed. "Hi, Roy."

"Hi, Doc."

"Hello, John. How are you feeling?"

"Hi, Doc. Much better. Now that I know they got the guy that's been doin' his damnedest to _kill_ me."

"That's understandable."

"Say, Doc, how 'bout movin' me to a regular room?"

"What's wrong with this one?"

The patient pointed to the closed-circuit TV camera that was mounted on the ceiling directly above his bed. "There's no privacy in 'I See You'. A person can't even burp, or fart—or pick their nose—without somebody _watching…_or_ listening_."

Dr. Kurtz was amused to no end. "You do a _lot_ of 'burping', 'farting' and 'nose-picking', do you?"

"No!" his patient adamantly stated. "At least, no more than the average person. But, what little I _do_ do, I'd like to be able to do it in _private_."

There was a metal clipboard hanging from a hook on the bed's footboard. Paul picked it up and began perusing its contents. "I'm afraid you're going to have to remain _here_ for awhile. You are not completely out of danger…yet. This latest seizure proves that."

The look of extreme disappointment on the young fireman's face was quickly replaced by one of confusion. "This _latest_ seizure?" John nervously repeated and shot his roommate a questioning glance.

Roy nodded. "You've suffered seizures two mornings in a row, now."

'Sheesh! No wonder my muscles are so sore,' John silently realized, and then asked aloud, "What does that _mean_—exactly?"

"For one thing, it means that your badly bruised brain needs more time to heal. It also means that, if your lungs can handle it, I'm going to be placing you back under _heavy_ sedation…for the next four to five days—at least."

"Why?"

"Because this whole 'light sedation' approach is obviously _not_ working." The doctor's eyes narrowed into two stern slits. "And because you can't fight your sedative—or your caregivers—when you're in a chemically-induced coma."

His patient looked guilty as charged.

Kurtz's stern gaze softened—some, and he continued. "Fact is, if you hadn't developed a moderate case of aspiration pneumonia, and gone into full respiratory arrest on us, you would **be **under heavy sedation _right now_. It was only on account of your acute respiratory distress, that the barbiturates were discontinued."

His patient contemplated that latest bit of news over, and continued to refrain from commenting.

"I've ordered another EEG and a respiratory consult. As soon as I have the results, I'll be back," Paul promised.

Gage managed a glum nod. "Thanks, Doc."

Kurtz flashed the young fireman a sympathetic smile—and then quickly took his leave.

* * *

John's surgeon stepped off the elevator and into Emergency Receiving.

Paul was pleasantly surprised to spot a pretty, familiar face. "Dixie!"

"Hi!" Miss McCall returned the handsome young doctor's greeting with a grin. "What brings you down here?"

"Your coffee is better than ours. Can I buy you a cup?"

The nurse nodded, and the two old friends started heading for the Doctors' Lounge.

"I hear you had a bad case of the flu. Welcome back to the land of the living."

"Thanks. And I hear that a very dear friend of mine is a patient of yours."

"Let me guess. The paramedic."

The nurse gave him another nod and her pretty face filled with concern. "How's he doing, Paul?"

Kurtz couldn't help but smile. He knew that Dixie knew such information could only be shared with next of kin, or medical personnel directly involved with the patient's case. "Don't tell me," he teased. "He's your 'brother'. Right?"

The nurse's grin returned and she managed another nod.

"Your fireman friend comes from an exceedingly _large_ family," the doctor deduced and returned the woman's grin. "He survived that psychopath's latest attempt to 'do him in'. But he became pretty agitated," Paul winced, as he recalled the surveillance video he'd just reviewed, showing his traumatic-brain-injury patient embroiled in a battle with his caregivers. "The nurse finally managed to get him sedated. But I'm afraid all that exertion brought about another seizure. I've ordered an EEG and a complete respiratory work-up. If his lungs can handle it, I intend to keep him _completely_ 'zonked out' for the next four to five days, to give 'things' a better chance to heal."

They reached the lounge.

* * *

Dixie poured them both some coffee and the pair picked out a table.

"Would it be okay for me to go up and sit with him for a few minutes?" John's worried 'sister' suddenly wondered.

John's doctor smiled and nodded. "He's awake right now, for his lung-function tests. Just try to keep him as calm and as quiet as possible."

"Don't worry. I will," the RN promised.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, up in ICU...

"John Roderick Gage, what _am_ I going to do with you?" Miss McCall insincerely scolded, as she came stepping up to her dear friend's hospital bed.

The paramedic exchanged a mischievous glance with his partner. "I don't know, Dix. What _are_ you going to do with me?"

Dixie was relieved to find that her young fireman friend was on the mend. She could always tell when John Gage was feeling better, because he would begin to flirt with her—again. "Not much, I'm afraid," she flirted right back. "I'm under strict orders _to keep you as calm and as quiet as possible_."

Johnny waggled his bushy eyebrows a couple of times and his wry grin broadened.

"Sorry I haven't been up to see you sooner. I've been out, almost an entire week, with the flu."

"See-ee," John insincerely scolded back. "I _told_ you you looked sick!…Goo-ood, but sick," the paramedic wisely clarified.

And it was Dixie's turn to grin. The RN's smile quickly faded, however. "My first shift back sure started off with a 'bang'."

Gage suddenly looked equally glum. "Yeah. Well…My _whole year_ started off with a 'bang'."

Dr. David Bentley entered the room just then, closely followed by Samantha Greyling, and saved Dixie from having to comment.

Dr. Bentley was a pulmonologist and Sammi was the respiratory therapist who had loaned Johnny her Sign Language books.

"Hi, Doc. Hi, Sammi," Gage solemnly greeted his latest guests.

"John," Bentley cooly acknowledged, "Dr. Kurtz has asked me to examine your lungs."

Miss Greyling pulled her equipment-filled cart right up beside the patient's hospital bed and warmly returned his greeting. "Hi, Johnny! I spent the Holidays in Acapulco. Just got back last night. I show up for work this morning, only to find out that _you_ are in ICU. Well, I'm gonna do my very best to help get you _out_ of here."

"Thanks. I appreciate that," John assured her. "By the way, I had my first conversation with a deaf person."

"Oh yeah? How'd it go?"

"Not too good, actually. Not too good. In fact, the guy tried to blow my brains out."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope."

His respiratory therapist was enthralled. "What happened?"

"When I signed 'fire'…" the gunshot victim paused for effect, "he _did_!"

Sammi's eyes about doubled in size and her pert little bottom jaw dropped open.

Roy and Dixie glanced at one another and rolled their eyes.

**TBC**


	35. Chapter 35

"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

Later that evening…

Dr. Kurtz paid his TBI patient another visit—as promised. Paul was both pleased and displeased to find the young man _awake_. "Your lungs are good to go!" the doctor declared as he stepped back up to the foot of the fireman's hospital bed. "Your latest Electroencephalogram shows elevated alpha wave activity."

The paramedic exchanged a confused glance with his partner. "Is that what's causing the seizures?"

"Not necessarily. Your TBI slowed down alpha wave production. Fatigue, emotional and physical distress, such as being nearly 'blown up', and even severe pain, can all contribute to the production of more alpha wave activity. One, or more, of your medications may also be a contributing factor. We've been pumping massive amounts of penicillin into your system, and extremely high doses of antibiotics have been known to trigger seizures. Hell, _anything_ that disturbs the normal pattern of electrical activity in the brain can lead to a seizure…including, seizures. Which is why they need to stop. You've suffered two tonic-clonic seizures—so far. I don't want to wait for you to suffer a third one. A-and, since anticonvulsants, alone, don't seem to be doing the job…"

His patient completed his train of thought for him, "You want to place me in a chemically induced coma."

Kurtz nodded. "Do you have a problem with that?"

His patient pretended to appear pensive. "Let's see…Do I wanna spend the next four to five days in here _conscious_?…_semi-conscious_?…or _unconscious_?" the paramedic glared up at the prying eye on the ceiling above his bed. "If you wanna knock me out, Doc, go right ahead. I have no problem—whatsoever—with that."

His doctor picked up the phone and placed an order for a _potent_ sedative.

John's entire body began to involuntarily 'tense up'. He turned to his roommate, looking for reassurance.

"Hey," Roy gave his apprehensive partner's left wrist a reassuring squeeze, "don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

Johnny gave his understanding buddy a look of undying gratitude and forced himself to relax…some.

Less than a minute later, an ICU nurse came into the room, carrying a tray.

The RN removed a fully loaded hypodermic syringe from the tray and promptly emptied its contents into the patient's IV port.

Roy continued to keep a comforting grip on Johnny's right wrist, until long after his buddy had drifted off into oblivion.

* * *

When John Gage re-opened his eyes—five days later—he discovered, much to his delight, that there was no longer a closed-circuit TV camera on the ceiling, directly above his bed. He blinked and looked around.

Sure enough! He had been moved out of 'I See You' and into a regular hospital room.

Which meant that his every move was no longer being continuously monitored.

He sighed in relief and slowly reached for his forehead.

The thick bandage that had completely encircled his head was gone. A much smaller, but equally thick, 4x4-gauze patch was now taped over his left temple.

John smiled. Things were looking _up_.

* * *

The recovering TBI patient received a string of visitors that morning, that kept him smiling.

Dr. Kurtz came by twice: once, during his usual patient rounds, and then again, a half-hour later, to give John Gage the results of his latest EEG. Brain wave activity now appeared perfectly normal. There had been no further seizures, and Paul had been tremendously pleased to announce that, the previous day, he had upgraded the paramedic's condition from 'serious' to 'stable'. The physician _finally_ felt that the young fireman was _out_ of danger.

* * *

The LACFD's Chief Engineer also dropped by. Jenner told John that he just wanted to say 'Hi'.

* * *

Special Agent Rousseau stopped by to say how sorry he, and the entire Organized Crime Task Force, was, to hear that a third attempt had been made on John's life.

In spite of Agent Rousseau, John spent the entire morning _smiling_.

* * *

Johnny was still smiling when Roy and Chet showed up in his 'regular' room, early that evening.

Johnny thanked his pals—profusely—for their support. He thanked Roy for putting his family life on hold for him…and for getting their captain involved in that whole 'Iverson' business. He said that he shuddered to think what would have happened if Captain Stanley hadn't contacted HQ. He told Roy that, in a roundabout way, _he_ had really saved his life, and that he was extremely grateful for that fact.

* * *

Just as his shiftmates were about to leave, Craig Brice poked his head into the room. "Hope you don't mind. I heard you were allowed visitors…"

John's face immediately lit up. "Craig! C'mon in! C'mon in!"

Craig stepped the rest of the way into the room.

Judging by the uniform he was wearing and the HT he was carrying, the paramedic was 'on duty'.

"And I heard that _you_ saved my life—again. Thanks, man!" Gage flashed Brice a grateful grin and extended his un-IV'ed hand.

Brice took it and shook it. "If you hadn't intervened, it is quite possible that I may have been seriously injured—or even _killed_—outside of the Diamond Groove Disco that night. I was merely returning the favor."

Gage's grin broadened. "Sa-ay, Craig…you like to fish?"

Brice was completely taken aback by the question. "I…I don't know," he truthfully stated. "I've never done it before."

Johnny gave his newest visitor a strange stare, but his enthusiasm remained un-dampened. "Well, I don't know if our 'off duty' schedules will ever line up. But, if they ever do, we'd be glad to teach yah," he offered and motioned to his two regular fishing companions.

Roy heard the offer and just had to grin. "If you expect Craig, here, to learn anything about 'catching fish', he prob'ly shouldn't be hanging around the _three of us_."

John gave his grinning partner a 'Ha. Ha. Very funny,' look, and then turned back to Craig. "Don't pay any attention to him. We have been known to bring a few fish home…on occasion."

"Yeah," Kelly quickly concurred. "On the occasions we can find a local 'Fish Market' that's open."

Gage's gaze locked upon Kelly and he gave the purveyor of 'gloom and doom' an irritated glare, as well. "Don't listen to _him_, either," he strongly urged.

"I think I might like that, John…" Craig realized, much to his amazement, and actually smiled.

"Grea-eat!" John exclaimed, sounding genuinely overjoyed.

Kelly suddenly felt compelled to pinch himself. "Godzilla…going _fishing_…with the Smog Monster," he dazedly declared, and slowly and sadly shook his head. "Ma-an, I must a' stumbled into an 'alternate universe'!"

Johnny beamed a broad grin in his mind-boggled buddy's direction. "Chet, you _exist_ in an 'alternate universe!" he teased right back, and then turned to his fellow firemen. "Every once in awhile, he just manages to stumble into the 'real world'."

The recovering paramedic's partners glanced at one another and traded grins.

**The End**

Author's note: TBI stands for traumatic-brain-injury.

Additional note:

_Hi guys! *wave wave* _

_Well, there you have it. _

_Hope you enjoyed the conclusion to 'Godzilla and The Smog Monster'. *fingers crossed*_

_Again, I wish to thank you all for reading my story. ((((Readers))))_

_For those of you who so thoughtfully took a moment to leave a comment: (((((Ginormous Hugs))))) and *high-fives*. :)_

_For the next few days, I'm gonna be filling our big blue Harvestore silo with high-moisture corn. Lucky me. lol_

_As soon as THAT silo is full, I will be working on "If Wishes Were Horses". Unless, of course, Audrey posts another one of her E! story challenges. lololol I swear, my muse can be so fickle sometimes. :)_

_Take care! *more waving*_

_:) Ross7_


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